^     THE     ^ 

O  L5SI5AR11S  ^3 


f  -    -V 


LIFE-SKETCHES 


OP 


KEY.  GEOEGE  HEMY  CLARK. 


BY  HIS  BROTHER. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  ABEL  TOMPKINS. 

1852. 


a^ut"'(( 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

A.  TOMPKINS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


/a^^^E 


Stereotyped   by 

HOBART    &    ROBBINS; 

New  England  Type  and  Stereotype  Foundery, 

BOSTON. 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 


If  the  scenes  and  incidents  sketched  in  these  pages  are 
highly  colored,  it  is  because  I  have  written  with  a  sym- 
pathy carrying  the  imagination  back  to  earlier  years.  I 
have  endeavored,  however,  to  avoid  all  allusion  to  the 
private  sanctities  of  life,  where  such  allusion  was  unneces- 
sary to  the  narrative,  and  where  the  living  might  be  too 
delicately  involved.  Much  has  been  omitted  of  personal 
and  local  interest.  In  transcribing  from  the  diary  and 
correspondence  of  the  subject  of  these  sketches,  I  have 
quoted  those  portions  only  which  were  essential  to  the 
whole  story,  and  to  the  full  development  of  the  life  and 
character  I  attempt  to  portray.  As  I  have  seldom  paused 
to  obtrude  reflections,  the  moral  must  speak  for  itself. 

Would  delicacy  allow,  I  should  here  acknowledge  the 
many  public  and  private  words  of  sympathy  and  encour- 
agement I  have  received  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume. 
But  the  names  of  those  to  whom  I  am  indebted  are  so 
numerous,  I  can  neither  cite  the  whole  nor  make  an 
invidious  selection  of  a  favorite  few. 

I  dedicate  these  pages  to  all  who  would  leam  lessons  of 

Christian  faith  in  sorrow  and  trial. 
1# 


VI  PREFACE. 

While  writing,  the  venerable  Balfour,  in  the  ripeness 
of  years,  and  Soule,  in  his  prime,  have  joined  the  early 
fallen  brother.  As  post  after  post  in  the  ministry  of  re- 
conciliation is  thus  vacated,  solemn  mantles  fall  upon  those 
who  remain.  With  this  thought  I  have  written ;  and  I 
have  been  prompted  by  a  love  born  in  childhood,  bloom- 
ing in  youth,  and  strengthening  amid  the  scenes,  the  aspi- 
rations, the  struggles,  of  early  manhood.  And  that  love 
is  now  made  more  sacred,  by  the  consciousness  of  a  celes- 
tial guardianship  in  every  hour  of  meditation,  peopling  the 
world  with  memorials  of  chastening  sorrow  and  joy.  With 
one  whose  *  In  iMemoriam,'  through  all  the  labors  of  this 
volume,  has  rung  with  plaintive  sympathy,  let  me  pray 
the  Father  — 

'  Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 

*  Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 

*  Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 
*  And  in  thy  wisdom  make  us  wise.' 

U.  C. 

CmcoPEE,  Mass.,  April,  1852. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  Bot.  —  Prophetic  Shadow 9 

CHAPTER  II. 

FiEST  Grief.  —  No  Home.  —  New  Home.  —  Glee  aio) 
Gloom 14 

CHAPTER   III. 

Brothers  Part.  —  Religion.  —  Adrift  in  the  great 
City 19 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Street  Orator.  —  Diary.  —  Dawning  Gospel.     ....  23 

CHAPTER   V. 

The  New  Birth.  —  Teacher.  —  Charles  and  George.  .  30 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Western  Wanderer.  —  Clinton.  —  Faith  Tried.   ...  39 

CHAPTER   VII. 
Canandaigua.  —  School-scenes.  —  Tremblings 53 


Tin ,  '  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

PAOB 

Lake  Scene.  —  The  Falls.  —  Lockport.  —  New  Exck 
LAKD 62 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Lawbence.  —  On,  on,  on.  —  Ella.  —  Life  Earnest.    .  .  76 

CHAPTER   X. 
Peemonitobt.  —  Shadows.  —  The  Mourner's  Wail.  .  .  92 

CHAPTER  XI. 
The  Martyr  of  Lone  Labors  and  Sorrows  Bowed.  .  102 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Valedictory.— The  "Wandering  Invalid. —Last  Scene.  117 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
Obsequies. — General  Analysis. — The  Dream  Realized  .139 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   BOY. TROPHETIC   SHADOW. 

As  the  brow  of  the  lowliest  traveller  beams  with  new 
light  while  catching  a  view  of  the  mountain  summit  up 
whose  steeps  he  toils,  so  the  humblest  life  is  lighted  with 
moral  grandeur  by  the  inspiration  of  a  high  purpose.  If 
the  story  before  us  shall  illustrate  this,  and  add  to  the 
hope  of  those  who,  with  noble  aims,  are  struggling  against 
adverse  elements,  its  designed  mission  will  be  fulfilled. 
We  owe  our  debts  of  love  and  praise,  not  only  to  those 
who  stand  great  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  to  those 
also  who  walk  in  the  lowliest  spheres  of  duty.  These 
need  encouragement  more  than  they  ;  and  if  these  are 
passed  with  no  words  of  cheer,  no  efforts  to  redeem  their 
names  from  oblivion,  many  may  sink  in  their  own 
esteem,  and  droop  along  their  unnoted  path. 

In  the  borough  of  Bedford,  Westchester  county,  New 
York,  about  two  miles  north-west  of  the  village  bearing 
the  same  name,  there  lies  a  quiet  valley,  sheltered  on  the 
east  and  west  by  sloping  woodlands  and  fields,  and 
watered  by  a  rivulet  whose  banks  wave  with  luxuriant 
beauty.  This  valley  bears  the  uneuphonious  name  of 
Sukeybone,  yet  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of  those  numerous 
rural  retreats  abounding  between  the  'rock-ribbed'  hills 


10  LIFE-SKETCHES  OP 

of  Westchester.  Here  was  the  birth-place  of  George 
Henry  Clark ,  October  31,1821.  He  was  the  youngest 
of  four  children  born  to  Joseph  and  Mary  Clark.  His 
mother,  a  Bouton,  was  one  of  four  sisters,  all  of  whom 
were  happily  and  respectably  settled  in  .social  life.  His 
father  descended  from  two  Clark  brothers,  who,  in  the 
early  settlement  of  the  country,  located  in  Connecticut, 
He  was  the  tenth  child  among  thirte^i  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, most  of  whom  lived  and  became  heads  of  promising 
families ;  and  all  connected  with  the  Presbyterian  church, 
except  Joseph  and  one  sister,  who  united  with  the  Meth- 
odists, Long  before  age  would  admit  he  applied  for  mem- 
bership, and  was  noted  for  religious  seriousness,  though 
he  never  manifested  much  of  the  enthusiasm  peculiar  to 
that  people  in  those  earlier  times.  After  he  became  con- 
nected with  the  church,  he  held  a  responsible  position, 
and  his  house  was  ever  the  home  of  Methodist  preachers 
while  passing  around  their  circuits.  The  appearance  of 
the  preacher's  horse  in  the  distance  was  usually  a  signal 
for  the  boys  to  commence  a  race  after  the  plumpest  fowl 
cackling  about  the  premises ;  then  followed  the  merci- 
less decapitation,  and  the  chicken  pie.  And  after  the 
lads  had  fed  the  minister's  horse,  how  they  used  to 
skulk  around,  shy  of  that  wonderful  man,  fearful  of 
some  awful  question  about  the  soul,  and  ^mournfully 
envious  to  think  bow  certain  he  seemed  of  going  to 
heaven,  while  they  felt  themselves  nothing  but  grace- 
less little  sinners,  momentarily  exposed  to  the  ever- 
lasting pit !  And  they  wondered  how  he  could  be  so 
kippy,  eat  so  heartily,  and  talk  and  laugh  just  as^ 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  II 

thougli  nobody  was  in  danger  of  the  doom  they  feared. 
There  was  a  mystery  for  time  alone  to  elucidate. 

From  early  life,  the  children  were  under  a  rigid  reli- 
gious discipline,  now  known  in  but  few  families ;  yet 
it  was  a  discipline  dictated  by  the  sincerest  parental 
piety,  and  was  seldom  enforced  by  corporal  inflictions. 
A  Christian  mother  breathed  into  her  infant  charges  the 
gentlest  spirit  of  love.  She  impressed  those  lessons  of 
the  Holy  Word  which  none  but  a  mother  can  most 
effectually  impress.  At  night  and  morning  she  bent 
in  prayer,  and  taught  each  to  lisp,  '  Our  Father  in 
heaven^'  In  that  early  home  no  meal  was  partaken 
without  reference  to  the  great  Giver  of  mercies;  no 
night  came  nor  morning  returned  without  finding  each 
knee  bent  at  the  family  altar ;  no  Sunday  passed  without 
its  exclusive  devotion  to  reading,  to  worship,  to  medita- 
tion ;  and  no  week-day  went  by  without  its  examples  of 
parental  patience  and  piety. 

Under  influences  like  these  George  Henry  Clark 
passed  the  first  years  of  childhood.  While  in  his  fourth 
year,  his  father,  with  the  family,  moved  to  the  city  of 
New  York.  To  the  young  folks  it  was  a  long  and 
adventurous  journey ;  first  by  land  to  Tarrytown,  and 
from  thence  in  a  sloop  down  the  Hudson.  George  was 
in  ecstasy,  especially  when  the  lumber  wagon  rose  the 
hill,  a  short  distance  from  Tarrytown.  Sleepy  Hollow, 
of  Ichabod  Crane  memory,  lay  below ;  yonder  were  the 
broad  waters  of  Tappan  Zee,  and  far  down  rolled  the 
majestic  stream,  walled  on  the  west  by  the  sky-cleaving 
Palisades. 

While  in  the  city,  the  family  worshipped  and  the  chil- 


12  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

drea  attended  Sunday-scliool  at  the  old  Methodist 
Church  in  Duane-street.  The  younger  boys  went  to  free 
school,  where  both  education  and  the  rod  were  free,  and 
the  latter  most  freely  applied.  One  day,  on  returning 
from  school,  George  was  menaced  by  a  drunken  beggar, 
who  relished  the  sport  of  frightening  him.  Not  being 
able  to  set  up  a  defence,  Gleorge  ran  from  danger.  From 
certain  peculiarities  in  his  gait  and  garments,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  forget  just  how  he  looked  while  run- 
ning at  that  moment.  Whenever,  in  after  life,  I 
referred  to  this  race  of  his,  he  used  to  argue  it  futile  to 
resist  whatever  danger  could  not  be  overcome  even- 
handed,  and  contended  his  legs  would  ever  be  his  best 
friends,  in  case  of  any  perilous  assault.  Though  he 
claimed  a  fair  share  of  youthful  daring,  he  usually  chose 
a  dignified  retreat  in  preference  to  a  fight,  even  at  the 
risk  of  gaining  the  name  of  coward.  In  the  moral 
battles  of  life,  however,  he  knew  no  retreat. 

On  account  of  the  mother's  declining  health,  in  the 
summer  of  1826,  George  and  his  elder  brother  were 
sent  into  the  country,  near  their  birth-place,  to  spend  the 
season  in  the  family  of  a  widow  lady.  The  mother  was 
failing  fast,  when,  with  quivering  lips  and  silent  tears, 
she  bade  them  go,  and  uttered  her  parting  benediction. 
She  would  soon  meet  them  again.  George  continually 
mourned  her  absence. 

One  warm,  sunny  day  in  August,  while  sporting  with 
his  brother  on  their  way  from  school,  he  paused  sud- 
denly, and  stood  in  sad  and  solemn  reverie.  His  head 
dropped,  his  eyes  were  set,  and  his  face  wore  a  vacant 
aspect.     '  Mother  is  dying  I '  said  he,  at  last,  breaking 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  1^ 

the  strange  spell.  Had  the  loudest  thunder  broken, 
and  the  heavens  grown  instantly  black,  in  that  hour  of 
sunshine,  the  eflfect  would  have  been  no  more  sudden 
nor  appalling.  The  brothers  had  never  thought  death 
possible  with  that  matron  angel,  and  had  heard  nothing 
alarming  with  regard  to  her  illness.  Soon  after,  the 
news  came  —  she  had  gone !  And  her  departure  was 
near  the  time  George  uttered  that  mournful  presenti- 
ment, which  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand  in  the 
light  of  a  material  philosophy. 
2 


14  LIPE-SKETCHES  OP 


CHAPTER  II. 

FIRST   GRIEF.  —  NO  HOME.  —  NEW   HOME.  —  GLEE  AND 
GLOOM. 

A  MOTHER  dead !  —  no  more  in  the  home  of  child- 
hood —  no  home  but  the  world  —  no  maternal  smiles, 
nor  tears,  nor  gentle  ministries  of  love !  George  could 
hardly  believe  his  orphanage  real.  His  grief  was 
wild  and  inconsolable.  He  ran  from  one  to  another, , 
questioning  and  calling  in  vain.  He  would  not  be- 
lieve it.  She  had  promised  to  meet  him  again,  and 
should  her  promise  fail  ?  He  mourned  and  wept  till 
his  heart  seemed  drained,  and  then  threw  himself  down, 
sobbing  and  sighing  into  slumber.  To  him  sleep  was, 
indeed,  the  blessed  restorer  of  nature ;  for,  during  all 
his  life,  it  came  to  his  eyes  in  seasons  of  grief  which 
would  have  found  others  restless.  I  have  often  envied 
him  the  ease  with  which  he  could  throw  himself  into 
its  embrace,  even  in  times  of  trouble. 

Home  was  now  broken  up ;  the  children  were  scat- 
tered ;  the  father  went  West ;  George,  with  the  elder 
brother,  finding  a  home  with  their  grandmother  Bouton. 
This  venerable  matron  gave  the  most  patient  and  pious 
devotion  to  her  charge.  She  cultivated  their  religious  na- 
ture; she  told  long  stories  in  the  evening;  and  when  they 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK. 


1% 


retired,  slie  usually  sat  up  alone  towards  midnight,  ply- 
ing her  needles,  poring  over  the  sacred  page,  or  singing, 
with  tremulous  tones.,  some  old  song  of  devotion.  She 
knew  all  the  whims  of  childhood,  and  was  ready  to 
amuse  as  well  as  instruct  One  night,  just  after  the 
boys  had  turned  into  their  little  crib,  at  the  foot  of  her 
bed,  George  was  taken  with  violent  hiccoughs.  The  old 
lady  suddenly  stopped  her  knitting,  rose,  walked  to  the 
side  of  the  crib,  brandished  one  of  her  needles,  and  told 
George  to  put  out  his  tongue  for  her  to  thrust  the  needle 
through  it  George  grew  pale,  —  his  hiccoughs  were 
frightened  away;  the  old  lady  smiled,  told  him  her 
object,  patted  his  head,  and  then  resumed  her  knitting. 
In  the  spring  of  1827,  the  father  was  married  to  a 
widow  lady,  with  one  son  and  a  daughter,  and  the  two 
families  settled  in  a  new  home  in  Lewisboro',  near  the 
small  village  of  Cross  River.  Years  of  peace  and  pros- 
perity followed.  In  1831,  a  year  before  the  cholera 
swept  our  country,  a  religious  revival,  then  spreading 
through  the  land,  visited  Cross  River.  In  many  house- 
holds that  season  was  the  '■  reign  of  terror.'  At  that 
time  I  never  heard  George  say  a  word  on  the  awful 
theme ;  it  was  too  awful  and  oppressive.  But,  in  after 
years,  he  represented  that  period  as  one  of  perpetual 
horror  and  suspense.  To  his  mind,  the  idea  of  endless 
punishment  was  no  vague  nor  ideal  theory.  It  was  a 
living  presence,  seen  in  the  solemn  faces  of  friends, 
heard  in  the  tones  of  the  pulpit,  read  on  every 
page  of  the  Bible,  felt  as  a  part  of  his  being,  —  burn- 
ing in  the  sunbeams,  flashing  in  the  lightning,  and 
peopling  all  the  universe  with  symbols  of  indescribable 


16  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

terror.  He  never  dared  to  doubt  it.  It  haunted  all 
his  childhood  and  youth,  repressing  joys  and  mirth,  and 
darkening  every  hour  of  thought  with  fears  of  a  frown- 
ing Godhead,  and  a  hell  of  souls  lost  forever ! 

He  knew  little  of  church  doctrines,  beside  that  one 
ever  darkening  feature.  He  knew  nothing  of  a  vica- 
rious atonement;  but,  for  the  little  sins  he  had  com- 
mitted, fancied  endless  doom  inevitable.  And  how  did 
he  envy  those  who  seemed  to  have  no  fears  like  his !  If 
he  thought  of  religion,  it  was  only  to  escape  hell.  He 
knew  not  how  to  love  a  God  whom  he  was  told  to  dread 
as  awful  with  wrath.  Yet  he  enjoyed  religious  moods, 
in  which  these  tormenting  fears  had  no  part.  He  and 
his  elder  brother  would  ramble  over  fields  and  linger 
within  wood-land  shadows  on  a  Sunday  morning,  listen- 
ing to  the  melody  of  nature,  mingling  with  its  gladsome 
inspirations,  and  sometimes  joining  in  praise  and  prayer. 
Every  secluded  spot  near  that  old  home  was  dedicated 
as  a  'bower  of  prayer,'  yet  devoted  not  to  a  God  of 
terror,  but  to  the  Father  of  love,  whose  smile  was  in 
the  landscape,  and  whose  voice  rose  from  the  altars  of 
creation.  Several  times  during  his  youth,  while  reviv- 
als were  going  on  in  the  churches,  George  sought 
religion  as  others  sought,  but  to  no  purpose.  It  came 
not,  and  he  feared  the  day  of  grace  had  gone.  In 
vain  he  sought,  wept,  prayed  with  the  multitude ;  but, 
retiring  to  his  closet,  or  to  the  great  temple  of  nature, 
he  seemed  to  find  a  strange  peace  and  joy  in  throwing 
himself  upon  the  bosom  of  a  God  speaking  with  a  *  still 
small  voice.' 

At  one  period,  he  joined  a  number  of  mates,  headed 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  17 

bj  his  elder  brother,  and  a  prayer-meeting  was  begun, 
in  imitation  of  adults.  The  meetings  were  held  in  the 
attic  of  a  neighbor's  granary,  and  prospered  several  even- 
ings. Some  boys,  however,  were  hard  to  enlist.  One  lad 
resisted  every  entreaty  for  a  while,  but  finally  came  in, 
after  having  been  convinced  that  all  men  mast,  at  last, 
die,  which  he  declared  he  never  before  knew,  though 
bred  in  the  midst  of  churches  !  While  the  boys  were 
on  their  way  to  the  granary,  one  evening,  George  wished 
to  stop  and  labor  with  a  lad  who  was  engaged  in  cut- 
ting turnip-tops.  George  endeavored  to  arouse  the  lad 
from  his  worldly  avocation,  and  put  in  the  strongest 
appeals  ;  to  all  of  which,  however,  the  only  answer  was, 
'  Cut  turnips,  —  got  to  cut  turnips ; '  and  the  lad  w^s 
left  to  his  doom,  still  cutting  the  bulbous  roots.  Tow- 
ards the  close  of  the  meeting,  tliat  night,  an  unfortunate 
embarrassment  happened.  All  had  taken  their  part, 
except  the  boy  whose  mind  had  been  in  the  dark  on 
death ;  and  now  came  his  turn.  All  were  on  their 
knees,  waiting  in  siLspense.  He  began,  but  had  gone 
over  only  half  a  sentence,  when  he  came  to  a  stand.  He 
had  no  words,  and  whispered  to  his  neighbor  for  help. 
His  neighbor  suggested  the  Lord's  Prayer.  But  the 
boy  faltered,  was  unable  to  understand,  grew  more 
and  more  embarrassed,  and  at  last  created  a  general 
giggle  among  the  others.  This  was  more  than  his 
religion  was  prepared  to  endure.  He  rose  in  wrath, 
and  then  all  the  boys  roared.  The  meeting  broke  up  in 
fun  and  confusion,  but  left  its  lesson  against  attempting 
to  make  men  of  boys  before  their  time. 

But  George's  youth  is  passing.     The  summers  were 
2# 


18  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

spent  on  the  farm,  and  tlie  winters  at  common  schools, 
—  common,  indeed  !  Among  the  teachers  he  ever  re- 
membered with  endearment,  were  one  Mr.  Benedict  and 
his  daughter  Jane,  and  a  Miss  Howe,  since  Mrs.  Cable ; 
the  latter  of  whom  left  a  most  genial  Christian  impres- 
sion. If  George  was  distinguished  for  any  peculiar 
trait  among  liis  schoolmates,  it  was  a  kind  of  wild  and 
reckless  spirit.  He  was  an  indifferent  scholar,  learning 
but  little  till  after  his  sixteenth  year.  Webster's  old 
Spelling-book,  and  DaMl's  equally  old  Arithmetic,  — 
both  of  which  he  kept  as  relics,  —  boanded  his  studies. 
In  his  sports  he  was  headstrong  and  foremost.  He  had 
a  bold,  frank,  dashing  air,  that  dared  everything,  that 
commanded  the  first  place  among  his  mates,  and  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  deliberate  cunning.  If  he  was 
wayward,  stormy,  or  stubborn,  it  was  only  from  impulse, 
and  lasted  but  a  moment.  He  had  no  room  in  his  ever- 
active  nature  for  any  perilous  stuff  like  malice.  He 
was  always  either  highly  elated  or  deeply  dejected  in 
spirits ;  subject  to  extremes,  —  in  boyhood  the  cheerful 
predominating. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  19 


CHAPTER  III. 

BROTHERS    PART. RELIGION. ADRIFT    IN    THE    GREAT 

CITY. 

In  the  summer  of  1835,  —  George  thirteen  years 
old,  —  his  elder  brother  left  home  for  school,  and  a  corre- 
spondence began  for  life.  To  this  early  correspondence 
he  acknowledged  himself  indebted  for  the  highest  incen- 
tives to  mental  culture.  In  the  autumn  of  1836,  his 
elder  brother  went  to  New  York ;  and  George,  in  his 
loneliness,  with  the  ties  of  youth  sundered,  first  began 
to  realize  the  foreshadowings  of  coming  change  and 
trial.  In  February,  1837,  he  writes  himself  lone  and 
friendless,  with  only  o7ie  to  whom  he  can  go  for  sym- 
pathy. He  seems  happy ;  but  none  read  the  sadnesses 
lingering  beneath  a  smiling  face!  July,  1837,  he  re- 
joices at  a  letter  of  counsel  from  his  brother ;  speaks  of 
a  companion  who  is  aspersed  for  his  low  birth,  but 
whom  he  means  to  defend,  in  spite  of  popular  opinion ; 
and  then  he  recounts  his  small  doings  on  the  farm. 
August,  1837,  he  mourns  over  his  companionless  lot; 
talks  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  but  works  too  hard  to 
enjoy  them,  except  on  Sundays,  when  he  can  ramble  out 
alone;  regrets  the  absence  of  a  Sunday-school,  and 
warms  with  interest  in  behalf  of  the  Methodist  meet- 
ings he  attends. 


20  -  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

Now  seventeen  years  old,  January,  1838,  he  begins 
to  write  seriously  of  life.  All  is  dark  and  mysterious, 
and  he  wonders  what  his  sphere  will  be.  He  feels  that 
home  is  not  his  place,  and  that  he  must  soon  seek  his 
destiny  in  the  wide  world.  He  has  his  choice,  like  the 
other  brothers,  —  remain  at  home  dependent,  or  go  out 
on  his  own  responsibility.  For  a  while  longer  he  prefers 
the  paternal  roof.  May,  1838,  he  writes  with  deep 
emotions,  while  sitting  in  the  old  attic  chamber,  looking 
around,  recalling  memories  of  other  days.  Now  the 
only  boy  at  home,  he  is  more  lonely  than  ever ;  yet  he 
glories  in  the  freedom  he  enjoys  on  the  farm.  He 
recalls  the  sainted  mother,  and  the  grandmother  just 
departed,  and  is  animated  with  hope  of  joining  them,  at 
last,  in  a  better  land.  But  tears  fall  on  his  paper,  blot- 
ting the  words  which  strive  to  utter  his  emotions. 

In  the  early  part  of  this  year,  with  a  number  of  com- 
panions, he  presented  himself  as  a  candidate  for  reli- 
gious conversion.  A  long  time  he  sufiered  and  sought, 
without  experiencing  any  change.  All  was  mockery 
and  misery  to  his  soul.  His  church-trained  conscience 
told  him  of  a  duty  which  he  knew  not  how  to  discharge ; 
yet  he  labored  on,  weeping  and  pra3dng.  He  had  never 
doubted  the  genuineness  of  the  religion  he  sought,  or 
its  doctrines,  for  he  knew  of  no  other.  But  all  his 
efforts  to  find  it  were  fruitless.  He  was  told  to  believe, 
give  up  all,  and  the  change  would  then  come.  He  com- 
plied as  far  as  possible,  but  remained  the  same  creature. 
At  last,  however,  he  was  persuaded  to  settle  down  under 
the  impression  tliat  the  change  might  have  been  uncon- 
sciously wrought,  and  was  announced  as  converted.     He 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  21 

was  sincere,  yet  seldom  made  the  subject  one  of  either 
correspondence  or  conversation.  It  seemed  unnatural 
and  constraining.  It  gave  no  new  tone  to  either  his 
heart  or  life.  In  fact,  it  injured  his  better  nature  ;  for, 
while  he  was  restrained  in  the  presence  of  professors,  at 
other  times  he  suffered  the  reaction  of  professional 
embarrassment. 

July,  1838,  he  again  alludes  to  the  sainted  dead,  and 
blots  his  paper  with  tears.  This  letter  is  the  sixty- 
fourth  written  to  his  elder  brother.  I  pass  numerous 
incidents,  of  interest  only  to  those  who  sustained  the 
dearest  relations.  In  August,  1838,  he  is  elated  with 
the  prospect  of  going  to  school  the  ensuing  winter,  and 
prides  himself  on  elrinking  nothing  but  cold  water.  In 
the  autumn,  his  elder  brother  returns  from  New  York, 
and  a  new  era  begins.  The  brother  is  now  just  break- 
ing away  from  old  landmarks,  and  is  seeking  the  better 
Gospel.  They  meet  first  at  a  Methodist  camp-meeting, 
in  Smg  Sing;.  They  go  home,  and  conversation  is  con- 
tinually turning  on  the  new  Gospel.  But  George's 
time  had  not  come,  and  he  escaped  the  storm  then 
poured  upon  his  brother  for  professing  Universalism. 

A  few  weeks  pass,  and  George  goes  to  New  York  to 
take  a  clerkship  with  his  oldest  brother,  Hosea,  —  the 
place  vacated  by  his  elder  brother.  But  he  found  the 
business  uncongenial,  though  he  labored  to  content 
himself.  Here  he  joined  a  class  in  old  Duane-street 
Methodist  church,  and  was  a  regular  attendant.  March, 
1839  found  him  worn  out  with  his  situation  as  retailer  of 
fancy  goods,  constantly  confined  to  the  store ;  and  he 
resigned  his  place,  with  nothing  before  him.     At  first, 


22  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

he  thought  of  a  trade,  and  spent  four  days  on  trial  with 
a  watch-maker.  It  was  too  close  work  for  him,  and  he 
was  again  adrift,  almost  penniless.  He  next  entered  a 
grocery,  but,  after  a  month,  vacated  it  for  a  better  offer. 
Just  as  he  was  about  to  begin,  his  new  employer  failed, 
and  George  was  again  afloat,  low,  not  only  in  money, 
but  in  spirits.  Two  weeks  were  spent  wandering 
through  the  city,  in  fruitless  search  of  some  honorable 
employment.  But  he  kept  up  courage,  though  hope 
often  seemed  a  mere  mockery.  He  writes  cheerfully, 
and  recounts  his  trials  with  Christian  philosophy.  He 
turns  to  his  religion  as  the  only  source  of  comfort ;  the 
church  as  the  only  '  retreat  for  his  poor  body,  and 
troubled  spirit.'  He  becomes  newly  zealous  in  Metho- 
dism, and  resolves  to  stand  in  its  profession.  His 
weary  soul  knew  nothing  better  to  alleviate  his  sorrows 
and  disappointments.  He  would  join  the  zealous  throng 
of  worshippers,  and  for  a  while  forget  this  world  in 
aspirations  for  a  better.  In  spite  of  his  own  condition 
at  this  time,  he  often  forgot  himself  in  seeing  the  woe 
and  crime  of  the  great  city  around  him ;  and  he  took 
many  lessons  of  sympathy  and  warning. 


GEOEGE   UEXEY    CLARK.  23 


CHAPTER  lY. 

STREET   ORATOR. DIARY. DAWNING    GOSPEL. 

"While  wandering  in  the  great  city,  but  finding  a 
transient  home  with  his  last  employer,  one  day  he  is 
sent  out  on  an  errand,  with  horse  and  wagon.  While 
driving  along,  the  old  animal  he  drove  —  a  forlorn  sam- 
ple of  his  abused  species  —  stumbled,  and  fell  in  the 
street.  A  crowd  soon  gathered  around,  and  the  animal 
was  raised,  but  with  broken  gear  and  a  bruised  limb. 
The  damage,  however,  was  directly  repaired,  and  George 
mounted  the  wagon  to  drive  on  again.  But,  at  this 
moment,  a  villanous  fellow  in  the  crowd  began  to  swear 
and  blow  him  about  beating  the  horse.  George  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  held  forth  to  the  multitude  in  stout  denial 
of  the  charge.  The  fellow,  however,  persisted  in  his 
abuse ;  and,  in  addition,  having  stolen  the  whip,  threat- 
ened George  not  only  a  whipping,  but  a  trial  before  the 
police.  Refusing  to  restore  the  whip,  he  started 
towards  the  police-office,  and  called  on  George  to  follow. 
George  roared,  raved,  resisted ;  but,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  with  the  poor  horse,  drove  after  the  fellow  till  the 
office  was  reached.  The  bully  entered,  and  soon  re- 
turned, telling  George  he  was  wanted  within.  But, 
while  the  man  was  gone,  George  had  been  brewing  fresh 


24  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

wrath,  wMch  he  now  poured  out  anew,  threatening  the 
fellow  with  a  complaint,  if  the  stolen  whip  was  not 
instantly  restored.  His  long,  lank,  sapling  form,  tow- 
erin«  up  from  the  wagon-seat  behind  the  scrawny  nag 
he  drove,  together  with  a  voice  raised  to  the  highest 
key  of  indignation,  in  dwelling  on  the  rights  and  abuses 
of  humanity,  as  illustrated  in  his  present  case,  soon 
drew  around  him  a  sympathetic  throng.  The  bully 
now  saw  the  tide  of  popular  feeling  rising  strong  against 
him ;  and,  taking  to  his  heels,  left  George  to  a  triumph- 
ant drive  back  to  his  employer. 

While  still  wandering  unengaged,  with  no  hopeful 
prospect  before  him,  too  independent  to  seek  the  aid  of 
friends  able  and  willing,  stung  by  a  sense  of  wrongs 
untold,  May,  1839,  he  writes : 

'  I  feel  that  I  am  born  to  trouble.  Such  lonesome 
*  feelings,  —  feelings  of  deep  sorrow,  —  such  discontent, 
'such  home-sickness,  I  have  never  before  known.  I 
'  am  a  poor  wandering  boy  on  the  wide  earth,  destitute 
'  of  friends,  and  all  that  can  make  life  dear  and  happy. 
'  All  is  gone.     I  am  wretched,  and  what  makes  me  so  ? 

'  My  eyes  water  —  tears  must  flow.     But  Mr. 

'  is  coming  in  ;  I  must  wipe  my  eyes.' 

Unable  to  smother  his  grief,  he  wanders  miles  out  of 
the  city  along  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Hudson,  reads 
till  dark,  and  then  throws  himself  to  the  ground,  strug- 
gling in  prayer.  And  what  is  the  great  burden  of  his 
heart  ?  He  pants  not  for  ease,  nor  wealth,  nor  fame, 
nor  pleasure.  He  wants  merely  a  living,  with  sympa- 
thetic friends  and  humble  means,  means  for  culture  and 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  25 

lowly  usefulness.     Yet  the  world  has  no  place  for  him, 
and  all  is  dark  ! 

At  last  he  returns  home,  and  spends  a  season  on  the 
fiirm.  June,  1839,  he  again  writes  from  the  old  attic 
chamber  to  his  elder  brother,  now  a  remote  successor  to 
Ichabod  Crane  in  a  school-house  near  Sleepy  Hollow. 
But  home  fails  to  afford  him  the  needed  motives  to 
improvement.  He  deplores  his  ignorance,  and  applies 
himself  anew.  July  9th,  1839,  he  commences  a  diary, 
never  after  abandoned  while  able  to  write.  September, 
1839,  finds  him  back  to  his  old  place,  as  clerk,  in  New 
York.  His  correspondence  continues.  One  day,  on  his 
return  from  the  post-office,  he  grew  so  absorbed  in  the 
perusal  of  a  letter  from  his  elder  brother,  he  forgot 
he  was  in  the  street,  laughed  out  loud  several  times,  and 
walked  on,  reading,  till  he  had  gone  half  a  mile  past  his 
place  of  business,  at  last  to  find  himself  bolting  against 
one  of  the  Battery  gates,  at  the  foot  of  Greenwich- 
street,  surrounded  by  a  score  of  ragamuffins  shouting 
and  giggling  over  his  fancied  insanity ! 

Completing  his  eighteenth  year  October,  1839,  he 
writes  himself  down  '  an  old  fool ;'  but  is  consoled  with 
the  reflection  that  ♦  every  family  must  have  its  fool.' 
Yet,  while  he  indulges  in  regrets  over  the  waste  of  the 
past,  he  has  no  bitter  memory  over  the  sins  of  city  life, 
too  common  with  youth  from  the  country.  He  resisted 
the  temptation  of  vulgar  vice,  and  was  proof  against 
■wild  and  dreamy  passions. 

At  this  date,  while  his  letters  are  cheerful,  his  diary 
breathes  a  tone  of  s^ness  and  discontent.     His  employ- 
ment is  distasteful,  though  it  opens  the  path  of  future 
3 


26  lue-sketches  of 

fortune.  He  attends  his  class  and  worship  in  the  old 
Duane-street  church.  He  finds  but  little  pleasure  in 
popular  amusements,  though  often  taking  the  liveliest 
part  in  social  parties.  In  youthful  society,  if  he  took 
any  part,  it  was  always  the  first  and  prominent.  Yet 
he  writes  all  down  as  vanity,  and  regards  his  meetings 
and  correspondence  among  the  highest  interests  of  his 
life.  Selections  from  his  diary  may  here  reveal  his 
style  of  thinking  and  writing  at  this  date  : 

*  Sunday,  November  24:th,  1839. — We  had  an  old 
'settler  for  our  leader  in  class  this  morning  —  Uncle 
'Jimmy  Horton.     Called   on    sister   Huldah  —  quite 

*  rainy.  Went  to  Duane-street  in  the  evening  ;  after 
'church,  repaired  to  171 J  Greenwich,  the  store  where 
'  I  sleep,  and  where,  in  hours  of  serious  meditation,  I 
'  enjoy  more  than  the  prince  decked  with  diadems,  or  the 
'hero   crowned  with   laurels.      2Qth.  —  After   dinner, 

*  met  with  a  serious  adventure  with  some  rogues  caught 

*  in  the  act  of  stealing.  December  loth.  —  Evening, 
'  went  to  church.  Saw  the  power  of  God  in  converting 
'  sinners ;  find  it  good  to  meet  in  his  house,  and  worship 
'  with  his  people.  December  the  last,  1839.  —  It  is 
'  now  11 1  at  night,  and  I  am  about  to  take  a  long  fare- 
'well  of  1839.  Those  familiar  figures  will  soon  be 
'forgotten.  Yes,  the  year  is  now  about  expiring. 
'  Methinks  I  hear  the  bells  tolling  out  its  last  fleeting 
'moments.  Farewell,  misspent  year!  But  let  me 
'  spend  thy  last  moment  on  my  knees  at  the  throne  of 
'grace.  January  2Qth,  1840.  —  Tells  about  the  same 
'  dull  story,  —  stormy,  sad,  lonely.^ 

His  letters,  at  this  date,  begin  to  assume  a  deeper 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  27 

tone  of  sorrow  and  dissatisfaction,  though  he  is  cheered 
by  some  gleams  of  the  brightest  hope  and  trust.  Un- 
settled in  regard  to  his  sphere  of  life,  unsatisfied  and 
sick  at  heart  with  his  business,  he  indulges  the  most 
distracting  doubts  and  dreams.  Being  only  on  proba- 
tion in  the  Methodist  Church,  he  is  perplexed  about 
assuming  a  full  membership  and  receiving  baptism. 
He  owns  his  lack  of  knowledge  on  various  points  of 
doctrine,  but  feels  that  his  religious  education  has  been 
correct,  and  invokes  Heaven  to  aid  in  living  the  Chris- 
tian, whatever  he  may  believe. 

In  March,  1840,  George  gladly  gave  up  his  clerk- 
ship, in  New  York,  to  take  a  public  school  in  Bedford, 
where  his  elder  brother  was  engaged  in  the  boarding- 
school  of  an  uncle,  Samuel  L.  Holmes,  Esq.  The 
school  was  engaged,  and  a  few  days  were  before  him  to 
prepare  for  inspection  by  the  town  committee.  AVith  a 
hopeful  prospect,  he  applied  himself  day  and  night,, 
and  accomplished  more  than  he  had  been  able  to  do  for 
years.  The  awful  ordeal  of  his  first  inspection  came, 
and  George  failed !  The  committee  brought  in  a  ver- 
dict, guilty  of  incompetence  to  teach.  And  no  mar- 
vel ;  —  the  poor  fellow  was  puzzled  with  questions 
drawn  from  a  system  of  teaching  long  gone  by  the 
board.  He  was  asked  to  spell  ''phen-o-men'-on" 
accent  on  the  third  syllable,  and  confessed  himself 
entirely  ignorant  of  any  word  thus  pronounced.  His 
failure  smote  him  with  a  terrible  blow,  and  blasted 
every  prospect  on  which  he  had  been  dwelling  with 
fondness.  It  was  a  mournful  walk  home  to  lodgings 
that  night.     He  was  indigent,  comfortless,  and  almost 


28  LIFE-SKETCHES    OP 

despairing.  Never  shall  I  forget  those  bursts  of  grief 
and  desolation.  Alone  and  adrift  again  on  the  wide 
world,  with  no  star  of  hope !  He  tried  to  sleep,  that 
night,  but  rolled,  groaned,  sighed,  bathed  his  pillow  in 
tears,  and  was  able  to  sob  himself  only  into  fitful  slum- 
bers, before  another  morning  dawned ,  on  his  desolate 
being. 

Home  once  more  welcomes  the  unfortunate,  and  he 
concludes  to  spend  the  summer  on  the  farm,  employing 
leisure  hours  in  preparing  to  teach,  the  next  winter.  It 
was  long  before  he  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  last 
bitter  disappointment.  His  trust  in  Providence,  that 
all  was  ordered  well,  never  entirely  forsook  him ;  yet 
he  saw  no  light.  He  passed  among  the  people  around 
him  as  ever  the  most  humorous,  happy,  and  light- 
hearted,  even  during  this  season  of  darkness,  opening 
his  bosom  to  one  alone  on  earth.  But  the  heart  aches 
in  dwelling  on  this  season  of  trial,  and  I  pass  over  the 
many  touching  records  found  in  his  letters  and  diary. 
0  !  the  mission  of  youthful  suffering  is  often  stern  and 
hard,  indeed !  and  yet,  in  it  are  born  the  energies  of 
manhood.  Never  despair,  and  patient  toil  and  time 
will  bring  the  harvest  whose  seed  was  sown  in  tears. 

George  now  began  to  apply  his  mind  anew.  He 
started  a  young  men's  club,  among  a  few  companions, 
and  engaged  in  those  discussions  calculated  to  develop  a 
critical,  inquiring  spirit.  His  religious  convictions  now 
commenced  undergoing  a  change.  He  had  just  arrived 
at  the  age  of  independent  thought,  and  read  with  avidity 
all  his  elder  brother  wrote  or  sent.  The  light  was 
dawning,  slowly  and  faintly,  amid  the  darkness  that 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  29 

spread  on  every  hand.  And  yet  he  trembled  at  its 
approach.  He  faltered  and  reeled,  as  he  began  to  feel 
the  foundations  of  a  life-long  faith  give  way ;  and  he 
thought  of  the  storm  poured  on  his  elder  brother  for 
assuming  the  widely  odious  name  of  Universalist. 
Could  he  meet  the  threatening  elements,  and  stand 
untrembling  beneath  the  doubly  darkening  storm,  while 
his  path  was  already  overshadowed  by  misfortune  ?  It 
was  no  trivial  concern ;  and  we  may  wonder  not  that  so 
many,  with  the  lack  of  moral  nerve,  have  long  hesitated 
to  break  from  their  early  religion,  with  all  its  associa- 
tions, and  assume  an  open  profession  of  a  despised 
Gospel,  whose  principles  have  not  yet  entered  the 
depths  of  their  being. 

After  reading  the  discussion  of  Ely  and  Thomas, 
George  first  began  to  write  freely.  June  9th,  1840, 
he  writes  in  regard  to  the  change  coming  over  him. 
Nothing  now  causes  him  to  hesitate,  but  the  fear  of 
crushing  the  hearts  of  venerated  friends.  There  was  a 
terrible  struggle  between  filial  duty  and  the  duty  he 
owed  his  God.  But  the  hour  of  agony  is  destined  to 
come. 

3* 


30  LITE-SKETCHES   OF 


CHAPTEK  y. 

THE    NEW    BIRTH. TE.4.CHEE.  CHAELES   iJNT)    GEORGE. 

June  13th,  1S40,  was  a  memorable  date.  George 
was  at  home,  and  his  elder  brother  was  on  a  short  visit. 
An  early  evening  meiil  was  passed  in  sad  silence,  —  a 
silence  at  last  broken  by  inquiries  in  regard  to  the 
sentiments  imbibed  by  the  brothers.  The  story  was 
soon  told :  George,  the  first  time,  openly  avowed  his 
faith  in  the  better  Gospel;  and  the  elder  brother 
repeated  his  purpose  to  devote  himself  to  the  ministry 
of  that  Gt)spel.  ^  ^  =^  =^  #  0 !  the  memories  of  that 
night !  The  brothers  crossed  the  threshold  of  home, 
leaving  a  crushed  spirit  behind.  They  hurried  their 
steps  in  silence.  The  night  was  silent,  and  the  full 
moon  rolled  in  clouds.  They  walked  on.  The  moon 
suddenly  burst  forth  full-orbed  from  its  mantle,  and  a 
loud  voice  was  lifted,  vowing,  before  high  Heaven,  to 
devote  a  life  in  endeavoring  to  rend  the  veil  that  mantled 
millions.  '  Amen  ! '  cried  George,  with  a  shout  of 
joy ;   and  the  silent  night  sent  back  the  echo,  'Amen  I ' 

From  that  night,  a  new  era  is  dated  in  this  history. 
If  George's  future  course  is  not  cleariy  defined  in  his 
own  mind,  it  is,  at  least,  faintly  foreshadowed  in  the 
far-off"  future.     It  rose  dimly  in  the  distance,  with  a 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  31 

moral  grandeur  too  great  and  glorious,  too  solemn  and 
awful,  with  untried  responsibilities,  for  him  to  dare  a 
close  gaze,  or  express  a  hope.  But  henceforth  it  was 
to  have  an  insensible  influence  in  shaping  his  ambition 
and  in  sobering  his  life.  It  was  the  star  of  his 
being,  though  glimmering  from  afar,  and  shedding 
feeble  light  over  many  a  coming  moral  battle-field, 
through  which  he  must  yet  fight  his  way  with  the 
armor  of  God. 

About  this  time,  George  became  closely  attached  to  a 
new  friend,  in  Charles  H.  Bouton,  a  remote  relative 
and  an  orphan.  He  was  a  youth  of  sad,  silent,  sensi- 
tive, and  diffident  bearing,  solemn  and  reflective,  small 
in  stature,  feeble  in  constitution,  embarrassingly  ardent 
in  his  emotions,  and  in  most  respects  entirely  different 
from  George.  He  had  known  the  deepest  afiiictions  of 
orphanage,  and  ever  seemed  to  wear  the  sober  air  of  one 
who  hoped  for  but  little.  His  companionship  exerted  a 
singular  influence  over  George's  impulsive  nature. 
George  generally  spoke  and  acted  from  perception; 
Charles,  from  reflection.  Hence  the  aid  one  gave  the 
other,  and  the  harmony  that  rose  from  diversity.  The 
light  of  the  better  Gospel,  at  this  time,  is  just  break- 
ing in  upon  the  mind  of  Charles,  and  he  and  George 
are  alone  in  faith  in  all  that  neighborhood.  Sunday, 
June  21st,  1840,  they  spend  in  Danbury,  Conn.,  and 
for  the  first  time  hear  the  message  of  universal  joy. 
They  enter  the  church  whose  inscription  above  the  gate 
reads  '  Good  will  to  all  men,'  and  find  in  these  words  a 
new  language.  The  preacher  is  unknown,  and  they  are 
strangers ;  but  their  tears  flow  in  gladness  as  he  goes  on, 


32  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

from  Psalm  13  :  25,  — '  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but 
thee,'  portraying  the  goodness  of  God  in  contrast  with 
an  opposing  view  of  the  divine  character.  It  was  just 
the  discourse  they  needed  in  that  hour  of  struggle,  and 
such  as  many  inquiring  souls  may  still  need. 

The  only  minister  of  the  better  Gospel  at  this  time 
known  to  George  was  Kev.  S.  J.  Hillyer,  of  North 
Salem,  who,  for  many  years,  every  second  or  fourth 
week,  rode  through  Cross  River,  on  his  appointment  at 
Long  Bridge,  a  distance  of  near  twenty  miles.  Every- 
body along  the  whole  line  knew  Mr.  Hillyer  ;  and,  as  he 
rode  past  in  sober  silence  behind  his  old  '  Dolly,'  many 
used  to  look  upon  him  as  a  pitifully  deluded  emissary 
of  Satan,  studying  some  new  oily  messages  to  deceive 
the  people ;  the  children  wondering  whether  old  '  Dolly ' 
was  conscious  of  her  master's  delusion,  and  if  so,  how 
the  animal  should  dare  convey  him  on  his  mischievous 
errand.  Poor  old  '  Dolly '  at  last  died,  but  died  under 
the  kind  hospitality  of  Captain  Howe;  though  her 
master,  at  this  date,  still  goes  the  rounds  of  his  mission. 

Among  the  incidents  illustrating  a  humane  impulse, 
I  remember  one  at  this  time,  in  which  George  came 
near  losing  his  life.  On  a  visit  to  his  elder  brother  at 
Bedford,  he  was  out  on  a  bathing  excursion  with  the 
pupils  under  the  charge  of  the  latter.  One  of  the 
larger  boys,  unable  to  swim,  agreed  with  the  swimmers 
to  jump  into  the  water  where  it  was  some  fifteen  feet 
deep,  in  case  they  would  come  to  his  aid,  if  he  was  not 
able  to  swim  ashore.  He  took  the  leap,  but  found  him- 
self floundering  in  vain.  The  swimmers  floated  around, 
and  made  several  ineffectual  attempts  to  rescue  him. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  33 

One  little  fellow  was  dragged  down  three  times  in  suc- 
cession bj  the  drowning  boy,  and  found  it  difficult  to 
extricate  himself.  Dreading  their  teacher's  displeasure, 
they  deferred  calling  for  his  help  until  there  was  no 
hope,  and  the  boy  had  gone  down  for  the  last  time. 
Then  they  shouted.  George  heard,  and,  waiting  no 
longer  than  to  throw  his  coat  aside,  ran  and  plunged  in 
like  a  madman.  He  struck  the  boy's  head,  and  the 
boy  grasped  his  boot  with  a  vice-like  hold,  rendering  it 
impossible  to  save  either  himself  or  the  boy.  He  rose 
to  the  surface,  and  shouted  for  aid.  His  brother  hurried 
to  the  spot,  waited  till  the  waters  calmed,  that  he 
might  see  where  the  boy  was,  dove  in,  and  brought  the 
lad  ashore,  who  instantly  came  to  himself,  and  laughed 
aloud  as  though  nothing  had  occurred. 

In  his  one  hundred  and  eighteenth  letter,  July, 
1840,  he  writes,  depicting  the  mournful  feelings  of 
friends  on  account  of  his  religious  change.  His  heart 
bleeds  for  them ;  but  he  looks  up  to  a  Father  whose 
voice  is  supreme,  and  whose  arms  are  open  when  all 
others  forsake.  He  now  becomes  fully  conscious  of 
what  it  is  to  meet  the  pitying  and  mournful  look 
of  friends  concerned  for  his  eternal  weal,  and  the 
frown,  the  scorn,  the  ignorant  abuse,  of  spiritual  foes, 
fettered  in  spiritual  darkness.  '  You  will  find  out 
your  awful  delusion,  when  it  is  too  late.'  '  You  don't 
believe  what  you  profess.'  'Your  brother  has  led 
you  astray.'  '  You  have  lost  religion,  and  backslid.' 
'  Satan  has  ensnared  you.'  '  Your  conscience  tells  you 
of  your  error.'  '  The  Bible  is  a  lie,  if  your  doctrine  is 
true.'     <  Universalists  are  nothing  but  a  graceless,  un- 


34  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

godly  set.'  'The  dying  hour  will  test  you.'  'The 
judgment-day  will  tell;'  these,  and  similar  expressions, 
were  of  every-day  occurrence. 

The  summer  passed  on  the  farm  with  many  toils,  and 
little  leisure  that  could  be  rightly  improved.  In  Au- 
gust he  again  repaired  to  New  York,  under  the  false 
hope  of  a  new  opening,  and  resolved  to  be  dependent  on 
home  no  more.  He  remained  several  days,  during 
which  he  underwent  a  severe  surgical  operation  on  a 
tumor  in  his  throat.  For  the  fii*st  time  he  heard  the 
Bev.  T.  J.  Sawyer,  in  Orchard-street.  But  he^  was 
unsuccessful  in  finding  the  place  he  anticipated,  and 
was  once  more  an  unfortunate  wanderer.  With  new 
anxieties,  with  little  means,  with  a  high  spirit,  with  a 
holy  purpose  to  devote  himself  aright,  with  a  burning 
consciousness  of  his  youth's  rapid  flight,  and  a  soul  pant- 
ing for  some  noble  activity,  —  whither  should  he  turn  ? 
The  only  consolation  often  given  him,  in  this  new  season 
of  trial,  was  the  assurance  that  all  his  troubles  were 
owing  to  his  newly-imbibed  errors !  God's  judgment 
was  on  him. 

He  now  resolved  to  eke  out  a  few  dollars,  return  to 
Bedford,  and  spend  six  weeks  at  school.  He  devoted 
his  time  faithfully,  but  with  no  definite  engagement  in 
view.  After  helping  a  while  at  home,  visiting  New 
York,  and  rambling  round  in  quest  of  some  eligible 
opening,  he  at  last  succeeded  in  engaging  himself  for  the 
winter  as  teacher  of  a  public  school  in  Pound  Ridge. 
This  time  he  passed  inspection,  and  was  now  elated  with 
his  prospect.  No  king  ever  mounted  a  throne  with  more 
pride  than  George  took  possession  of  his  first  school,  on 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  35 

the  2d  of  November,  1840.  But  soon  another  anxiety 
arose.  Now  his  elder  brother  was  afloat,  and  was  wan- 
dering in  Orange  county,  in  search  of  a  winter  engage- 
ment, preparatory  to  entering  Clinton  Liberal  Institute. 
But  no  place  was  found,  and  at  last  he  returned  to  take 
a  school  within  a  short  distance  of  George's,  and  the 
latter  was  relieved  from  a  long  and  painful  suspense. 

About  this  time,  the  Baptist  clergyman  of  Cross 
River,  a  short  distance  from  their  respective  schools, 
gave  a  brief  series  of  discourses  against  Universalism, 
which  were  thought  to  have  been  called  out  by  the  ex- 
citement occasioned  by  the  new  position  of  the  two 
brothers.  Notes  were  taken,  and  the  discourses  re- 
viewed by  the  elder  brother  in  his  first  efforts  at  minis- 
terial labor,  George  lost  no  occasion  to  hear,  though 
he  travelled  five  miles  on  foot,  each  evening;  and  no 
week  passed,  during  the  whole  winter,  in  which  he  was 
not  found  tramping  over  the  rocks  and  through  the 
snows  of  Stone  Hills,  to  seek  the  humble  studio  of  his 
brother.  His  soul  was  on  fire  with  an  intensity  too 
fierce  with  holy  zeal  to  permit  a  frequent  utterance ;  but 
the  pages  of  his  diary  here  glow  with  the  wildest  ex- 
pressions of  rapture  and  enthusiasm.  In  the  midst  of 
those  who  despised  and  abhorred  the  very  name  he  loved 
as  his  own  life,  he  was  incessantly  annoyed  by  the  bit- 
terest bigotry,  and  the  blankest  ignorance.     '  0,  could 

*  I  but  have  the  privilege  of  giving  vent  to  my  feel- 

*  ings  ! '  he  exclaims,  in  his  diary. 

His  school  began  with  three  scholai^s,  but  in  the  end 
numbered  over  thirty.  During  its  session  he  again  en- 
joyed the  humble  privilege  of  a  rural  debating  club.    In 


a6  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

teaching,  he  was  prosperous  and  happy  beyond  all  his 
hopes,  though  he  had  but  few  compliments  in  regard  to 
the  promise  of  many  of  his  pupils ;  and  his  religious 
sentiments  inclined  some  of  his  patrons  to  throw  out 
occasional  threats  of  withdrawing  their  patronage.  At 
the  close  of  his  school,  March,  1841,  with  no  prospect 
of  a  summer  engagement,  he  was  again  a  dependent, 
and  thought  it  his  duty  to  help  on  the  farm.  But,  as 
his  elder  brother,  poor  in  health,  concluded  to  stay 
home,  George  was  released ;  and,  uniting  his  fortunes 
with  his  friend  Charles,  both  repair  to  New  York; 
Charles  to  engage  in  a  trade  barely  sufficient  for  his 
support,  and  George  to  find  something  else.  Through 
the  most  marvellous  good  luck,  he  soon  succeeded  in 
obtaining  the  place  of  an  assistant  teacher  in  a  large 
select  academy,  in  Broadway.  He  and  his  companion 
found  a  room  to  let,  engaged  it,  named  it  '  Right 
Hall,'  and  set  up  boarding  and  keeping  house  on  their 
own  responsibility.  Having  each  a  chair,  a  table,  a 
common  bunk  on  the  floor,  a  few  homely  utensils,  and 
living  principally  on  baker's  bread  and  sugar-house 
molasses,  with  an  occasional  extra  lunch  down  town, 
their  economy  enabled  them  to  purchase  mental  food, 
and  to  dress  in  a  manner  fit  to  walk  Broadway  with 
gentlemen  boarding  at  the  Astor  House.  No  one,  see- 
ing them  arm  in  arm,  —  Charles  scarce  reaching  the 
shoulder  of  George's  tall  frame,  —  walking  down  Broad- 
way, or  strolling  at  sunset  on  the  Battery,  with  book  in 
hand,  would  ever  have  fancied  them  living  in  a  diminu- 
tive room,  on  about  one  dollar  a  week,  with  a  united 
income  of  little  over  two  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  37 

Yet  they  were  liale  and  happy,  envious  of  none,  and 
sanguine  with  hopes  based  on  toil  and  sacrifice. 

George,  ever  after,  considered  this  the  most  perilous 
season  in  his  life.  But  he  passed  the  ordeal  of  city 
allurements,  at  that  dangerous  age,  sustained  by  princi- 
ples of  virtue ;  though  dark  hours  came  on,  when  his 
star  seemed  almost  lost,  and  his  spirit  bowed  with 
presentiments  of  some  terrible,  mysterious  evil,  of  which 
his  heart  was  wholly  guiltless.  Although  he  loved 
society,  and  often  spent  a  seemingly  happy  season  of 
social  festivity,  and  sometimes  participated  in  proper 
amusements  with  the  keenest  relish,  yet  his  highest 
delight,  aside  from  study  and  worship,  arose  from  long 
walks,  enjoyed  with  his  companion  along  the  banks  of 
the  Hudson,  or  in  the  spacious  promenades  of  the  city. 
Added  to  other  privileges,  during  the  summer,  he  was 
connected  with  the  Berean  Institute,  a  society  of  liberal 
young  men,  then  meeting  in  the  basement  of  Bev.  I. 
D.  Williamson's  church,  in  Elizabeth-street.  But,  with 
all,  his  situatioa  was  fer  from  satisfactory.  His  com- 
pensation was  trifling,  and  gave  no  promise  of  laying 
aside  means  for  better  educational  advantages.  During 
a  vacation  of  his  school  in  August,  he  wavered  in  regard 
to  remaining  another  session ;  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
making  a  visit  to  his  country  home  with  Charles,  and 
leaving  '  Bight  Hall '  desolate. 

In  September,  however,  he  takes  his  place  again  at 
the  academy  in  Broadway,  but  has  no  home,  till  after 
looking  several  days  for  a  suitable  room,  to  re-commence 
on  '  Bight  Hall '  principles  of  economy.  The  room  at 
last  chosen  was  small  enough,  looking  out  of  a  single 
4 


38  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

attic  window  in  the  tliird  story  of  a  house  on  Green- 
wich-street, inhabited  by  a  number  of  poor  but  respect- 
able tenants.  But  now  another  interruption  ensued. 
A  parent  of  one  of  George's  pupils,  from  some  gross 
misunderstanding,  made  a  complaint  to  the  principal 
of  the  academy,  and  George  was  called  to  an  account. 
He  explained  and  vindicated  himself,  till  everything 
seemed  satisfactory  ;  yet  the  principal,  from  policy,  was 
induced  to  remain  rather  non-committal  in  his  defence  in 
presence  of  the  parent.  George  indignantly  resigned 
his  position.  He  would  beg  rather  than  see  himself 
sold.  And  once  more  he  is  on  the  world,  wronged, 
blighted  anew,  the  victim  of  misfortune,  yet  the  child 
of  trust,  pouring  out  bitter  tears,  and  cries  to  Heaven 
for  help.     His  diary  at  this  date  tells  a  touching  story. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  39 


CHAPTEll  YI. 

WESTERN    WANDERER. CLINTON. FAITH   TRIED. 

At  the  next  date,  he  is  on  the  Erie  Canal,  just  past 
Schenectady,  journej^ing  west  with  his  elder  brother, 
who  is  destined  to  Clinton  Liberal  Institute.  George 
has  started  for  a  school,  in  the  vicinity  of  an  uncle 
residing  in  Irondequoit,  near  Rochester,  N.  Y.  On 
Friday  afternoon,  September  24th,  1841,  he  stood  on 
the  rickety  promenade  deck  of  the  old  steamer  '  Napo- 
leon,' at  one  of  the  North  river  piers,  New  York,  and 
waved  a  mournful  farewell  to  his  friend  Charles,  stand- 
ing on  the  shore ;  and,  with  the  heart  of  a  moral  Napo- 
leon, he  launched  out  into  the  great  world  where  all 
was  new.  The  old  steamer  groaned  and  floundered 
all  night,  and  towards  noon  went  puffing  with  its  last 
lunge  into  the  pier  at  Alban}^  There  was  little  or  no 
sleep  that  night,  travelling  past  the  hills  and  highland 
grandeurs  of  the  Hudson.  At  noon  two  passengers 
were  packed  on  board  of  a  line-boat,  ready  to  start,  at 
the  rate  of  one  cent  and  a  half  per  mile,  board,  lodgings 
and  fare,  included.  That  long,  yet  too  short,  three  days* 
journey  to  Utica,  was  full  of  wonders  and  adventures 
to  the  noviciate  travellers,  who  now,  the  first  time, 
began  to  realize  the  size  of  the  continent.     But,  alas ! 


40  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

there  was  a  sad  hour  at  its  end,  when  hands  were 
clasped,  the  last  word  was  spoken,  faces  were  turned  to 
hide  the  nsing  flood  of  emotion,  and  the  sluggard  boat 
dropped  fram  her  mooring  in  Utica,  and  bore  George 
away.  Away,  away !  —  each  long  mile  making  the 
world  more  lonely,  and  each  moment  deepening  loneli- 
ness into  a  loss,  a  sorrow,  unknown  before  ! 

But  George  soon  resumed  his  cheerful  mood,  among 
the  social  passengers  of  the  canal  craft,  and  became  a 
leader  in  everything  appropriate  to  making  the  time 
pass  happily.  There  was  a  young  man  on  board,  how- 
ever, who  seemed  unwilling  to  be  made  either  social  or 
happy.  He  took  passage  at  Albany.  His  time  was 
princijmlly  occupied  with  walking  the  deck,  with  a  cold, 
stiff,  distant  air,  sleeping,  eating,  and  smoking  a  pipe, 
which  never  seemed  to  go  out.  Preserving  a  rigid 
silence,  and  refusing  to  hold  any  sympathy  with  his  co- 
travellers,  George  facetiously  called  him  '  Japhet  in 
search  of  his  Father ; '  and  was  at  last  appointed  by  the 
company  to  draw  him  out,  if  possible.  The  result 
proved  more  than  a  piece  of  good  humor,  as  intended ; 
for  the  young  man  motioned  towards  a  pistol  in  his 
pocket,  and  threatened  to  use  it ;  when  George  bluster- 
ingly  lifted  his  cane,  explained  the  innocence  of  his 
motives,  and  then  turned  the  whole  affair  off  with  a 
laugh ;  while  the  young  man  with  the  pipe  cooled  down, 
and  was  left  unmolested  '  in  search  of  his  father.' 

In  the  afternoon  of  October  1st,  a  cold,  raw,  muddy, 
cloudy  western  New  York  day,  George  landed  at 
Kochester,  shook  hands  with  the  company,  paid  his  fare, 
packed  his  baggage,  and,  with  three  dollars  in  his  purse, 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  41 

started  on  foot  in  search  of  his  Uncle  Hobbie,  with  no 
definite  idea  in  regard  to  the  right  course.  He  walked 
down  the  riyer  road  on  the  west  side  of  the  Genesee  for 
three  miles,  when  he  came  to  a  little  old  tavern,  where 
he  was  assured  no  man  by  the  name  of  Hobbie  lived  in 
that  vicinity.  It  was  now  dark  ;  and  weary,  worn  out 
with  walk,  lonely  and  depressed  in  spirits,  an  almost 
penniless  stranger,  hundreds  of  miles  from  home  and 
friends,  —  what  was  his  condition,  and  what  should  he 
do  ?  He  ordered  lodgings,  and  retired,  without  supper, 
to  refreshing  slumber,  —  that  blessed  slumber  of  which 
the  restless  world  could  seldom  deprive  him,  in  the  hour 
of  need.  Morning  came  late,  and  awoke  him  to  the 
dreary  consciousness  of  a  wanderer  in  a  strange  land. 
The  sky  was  overcast,  the  air  was  damp  and  chilly,  the 
earth  was  sodden  with  mud,  dull  faces  yawned  around 
the  miserable  tavern,  the  distant  Ontario  rolled  its  blue- 
black  waves  against  the  northern  horizon,  and  all  the 
landscape  wore  the  sombre  pall  of  autumn;  but  all 
these  seemed  only  feeble  symbols  of  the  gloom  gathered 
around  the  heart  of  the  lonely  exile. 

Paying  twelve  and  a  half  cents  from  his  scanty  purse 
for  his  lodging,  he  started  back,  a-foot,  on  a  breakfastless 
tramp  to  Rochester.  Inquiring  at  the  post-office,  before 
noon  he  crossed  his  uncle's  threshold,  and  was  greeted 
with  a  welcome  that  soon  made  him  at  home,  and  drove 
all  transient  care  away.  But  what  were  his  prospects  ? 
Winter  was  fast  coming,  and  there  could  be  no  delay  in 
seeking  a  location.  He  needed  a  new  recruit,  but  was 
so  low  in  purse  as  to  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
writing  his  elder  brother  that  correspondence  must  be 
4# 


42  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

suspended  until  he  was  better  able  to  pay  postage.  He 
had  never  come  to  this  before ;  and  yet  would  have  been 
indignant  had  his  brother  offered  to  pay  postage  in 
advance,  under  the  postal  law  then  existing.  He  would 
never  allow  his  poverty  to  be  recognized ;  and,  in  what- 
ever extremity,  would  insist  on  reciprocating  the  honor- 
able and  the  gentlemanly.  He  was  pertinacious  in 
insisting  that  his  destitution  should  not  be  made  known 
to  friends  at  home.  He  gloried  in  the  hard  necessity 
that  made  him  feel  dependent  on  himself  alone  ;  and  if 
he  ever  received  any  pecuniary  favors,  in  the  end  he 
paid  back  the  last  farthing.  He  hated  to  be  bound  by 
obHgations  of  this  character,  and  rigidly  adopted  this 
rule,  even  with  friends  nearest  and  dearest.  His  idea 
of  the  dignity  of  honest  manhood  was  too  high  ever  to 
permit  him,  even  in  his  lowest  estate,  to  whine,  or 
cringe,  or  hang  his  head,  merely  because  there  was  a 
vacuum  in  his  purse ;  and  those  who  were  most  inti- 
mate with  him  seldom  knew  the  meagerness  of  his 
capital. 

After  a  few  days,  George  was  fortunate  in  engaging 
the  school  in  his  uncle's  district,  and  but  a  few  rods  from 
his  residence,  where  he  could  enjoy  a  pleasant  home, 
and  the  society  of  cousins.  During  the  winter,  he  was 
a  faithful  attendant  on  the  ministry  of  Rev.  J.  Chase,  at 
Rochester,  a  distance  of  four  miles ;  and  this  was  the 
highest  religious  privilege  he  then  enjoyed.  He  had 
few  books,  either  theological  or  literary,  and  no  means 
to  purchase.  He  found  but  few  to  sympathize  with  him 
in  faith,  though  his  cousins  were  too  liberal  ever  to 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  43 

wound  his  feelings   on   that   subject,    notwithstanding 
their  membership  in  the  Presbyterian  church. 

October  31st,  1841,  he  writes  himself  down  twenty 
years  old,  and  is  startled  to  find  he  is  so  far  from  the 
great  ends  of  life.  His  very  last  cent  has  just  gone  to 
pay  postage  on  a  letter  from  home ;  and,  while  he  is  sadly 
opening  the  sheet,  a  five-dollar  bill  drops  out,  and  he  is 
rich  again.  He  always  trusted  in  God-sends  like  these. 
*A11  is  well  that  ends  well,'  he  repeated  a  thousand 
times ;  and  struggled  on,  waiting  to  see  how  things  wmild 
end.  In  Irondequoit  he  started  another  young  men's 
club ;  kept  an  evening  school  part  of  the  winter ;  and  sev- 
eral times  was  called  out  in  public  to  speak  on  temper- 
ance. His  life  began  to  bustle  with  new  activities. 
But  his  troubles  grew  none  the  less.  He  ranked  some 
of  his  scholars  among  the  greatest  rogues  and  numbskulls 
he  could  possibly  describe.  Disorder  at  one  time  threat- 
ened to  break  up  his  school,  and  complaints  poured  in 
upon  him.  He  trembled  in  fear  of  being  thrown  out  of 
employment  in  mid-winter.  He  tried  to  govern  his 
pupils  without  the  rod ;  but  his  culture  and  age  rendered 
the  experiment  a  failure.  Yet  his  feelings  shrank  from 
corporal  castigation,  and  he  never  adopted  it  as  a  rule. 
But,  deeming  this  the  only  remedy,  in  this  case,  he 
laid  down  new  rules,  cut  a  fearful  rod,  walked  into 
the  school  with  a  new  air,  stamped  his  foot,  wielded  his 
sceptre,  lifted  the  voice  of  command,  dusted  the  panta- 
loons of  several  arch  rogues,  and  after  that  heard  no 
complaint  of  disorder.  Things,  however,  went  on  mis- 
erably, in  many  respects.  Several  times,  during  the 
winter,  no  wood  was  provided  for  fuel,  and  the  school 


44  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

was  dismissed;  while  at  others  he  kept  on,  shivering  all 
day,  with  no  fire,  in  a  house  eminently  calculated  for  the 
freest  ventilation.  Boarding  around  among  his  patrons, 
he  had  but  little  chance  for  study,  and  less  for  retire- 
ment. Some  excellent  families  he  found,  and  others 
difficult  to  endure. 

At  this  time,  Burchard  and  Finney,  the  great  revival- 
ists, were  both  laboring,  in  different  churches,  in  Roch- 
ester ;  and  George  occasionally  attended.  One  morning, 
on  his  return  from  the  city,  while  passing  a  lonely 
woodland  spot,  he  was  startled  by  a  loud  cry,  which  at 
first  sounded  like  an  awful  Indian  war-whoop.  But  he 
turned,  stopped,  listened ;  he  saw  a  poor  man,  who  on 
the  previous  night  had  been  to  one  of  the  meetings,  and 
was  now  a  raving  maniac,  calling  on  the  Almighty  to 
save  him  from  everlasting  damnation.  George's  blood 
curdled  to  hear  the  shrieks  of  the  man,  made  mad  by 
errors  he  deemed  blasphemous;  and  with  a  sickening 
soul  he  left  the  spot,  never  to  forget  its  associations. 

On  the  last  of  March  his  school  successfully  closed 
with  a  public  entertainment ;  and  he  arranged  to  spend 
a  term  with  his  elder  brother  at  Clinton,  who  at  this 
time  was  endeavoring  not  only  to  recite  at  the  Liberal 
Institute,  but  to  supply  the  pulpit  of  the  '  Free  Church.' 
It  was  a  glorious  journey  with  his  brother  from  Roch- 
ester to  Clinton,  in  the  last  of  April ;  and  a  shout  went 
up  when  the  stage-coach  from  Oneida  rose  over  the  hill 
at  Hamilton  College,  and  the  charming  valley  of  the 
Oriskany,  with  its  yonder  village  spires,  came  in  view. 
At  this  time,  the  Institute  was  in  its  lowest  condition. 
It  was  the  last  term  of  the  lamented  Dr.  Clowes,  whose 


GEOEGE  HENRY  CLARK.  45 

name  will  long  remain  embalmed  in  the  memory  of  those 
students  who  knew  him  best,  and  who  smiled  mourn- 
fully over  the  eccentricities  which  made  his  life  un- 
happy. Great  and  venerable  soul !  rest  thou  from  the 
perturbations  of  a  world  that  knew  thee  not!  And 
Professor  Bridsall,  too  !  for  he,  too,  has  gone,  —  gone, 
with  a  broken  heart,  over  the  early  depai'ture  of  a  wife 
dearer  than  his  own  life,  leaving  behind  the  remem- 
brance of  many  a  noble  trait. 

In  commencing  at  Clinton,  George  began  to  question 
himself  anew.     I  quote  from  his  diary : 

'  April  2^th,  1842.  — The  question  sometimes  arises, 

*  What  am  I  at  ?  For  what  are  all  my  exertions  ? 
'  what  are  my  intentions  henceforth  to  do  ?     And  here  I 

*  am  fast.     I  sometimes  think  I  will  follow  in  the  foot- 

*  steps  of  my  brother ;  but  when  I  think  of  my  weak  and 
'foolish  head,  —  my  inaptitude,  my  inability,  my  dis- 

*  advantages,  —  a  thousand  impediments,  —  I  rush  back 
*upon  myself.     No,  you  cannot  do  it!  —  you  are  not 

*  qualified,  and  never  will  be  !  Then  again  I  am  driven 
'on  by  an  irresistible  impulse.     And  what  is  it  that 

*  nerves  me  up  to  action,  and  tells  me  to  go  on  ?  Will 
'  Heaven  aid  me !  May  2W,  1842.  —  Last  night,  while 
'  exercising  in  a  game  of  ball,  who  should  I  see  approach- 

*  ing  the  institute  but  my  old  friend  and  cousin,  Charles 

*  H.  Bouton  ?  I  leaped  in  the  air  three  feet^  and  grasped 
'  his  hand  as  though  years  had  separated  us !    3^.  —  To- 

*  day  we  take  up  the  old  style  of  "  Right  Hall"  living.' 

They  had  a  room  in  the  Institute,  more  plainly  fur- 
nished, if  possible,  than  '  Right  Hall ; '  and  the  aggre- 
gate cost  per  week  for  bread,  potatoes,  meat,  &c.,  ran 


46  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

short  of  one  dollar.  But  this  mode  of  living  was  then 
quite  common  in  the  Institute,  and  may  be  still.  I 
knew  a  student  there  who,  for  a  long  time,  lived  on 
twelve  and  a  half  cents  per  week,  expended  for  potatoes 
and  salt !  He  has  since  become  a  rich  and  an  eminent 
physician  in  Montgomery  county,  New  York.  The 
summer  passed  swiftly  and  happily  away  with  George, 
and  the  few  students  then  engaged  in  divinity.  A 
weekly  conference-meeting  was  held  among  them,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  took  part  in  public  religious  exer- 
cises. A  discussion  between  his  elder  brother  and  Pro- 
fessor Dwight,  of  Hamilton  College,  before  a  professional 
lyceum  in  the  village,  and  which  continued  eighteen 
nights,  afforded  him  much  interest  and  courage  in  his. 
theological  reading. 

'  Diary,  May  lQ>th.  —  Am  engaged  writing  a  sermon 
for  my  own  edification.'  It  was  for  his  '  own  edifica- 
tion,' for  he  was  wise  in  never  using  it,  though  he  pre- 
served it  as  a  warning  against  the  presumption  of 
theological  striplings.  He  wrote  merely  from  an  impa- 
tience to  apply  the  results  of  his  study  and  experience. 
There  was  too  much  activity,  and  too  little  expansive- 
ness,  in  his  intellect,  to  afford  either  time  or  room  for 
storing  away  the  acquisition  of  long  years  devoted  to 
study,  without  any  practical  application.  Hence,  he 
never  boasted  of  his  profundity  either  as  a  reader  or 
scholar.  He  was  too  restless  to  let  off  what  little  he 
had,  rather  than  wait  for  more,  either  to  solidify  it  or 
crowd  it  out.  Hence,  he  was  not  backward  to  improve 
every  opportunity  that  modesty  would  allow  him  to 
accept.     The  old  '  Philotemian  Society '  in  the  Institute 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  47 

was  eagerly  embraced,  among  other  privileges,  and  his 
voice  was  often  added  to  the  eloquence  which  its  time- 
honored  boards  had  echoed  from  innumerable  embryo 
orators. 

During  his  stay  at  Clinton,  George  formed  one 
acquaintance  which  had  a  genial  influence  over  him  for 
years  after.  And  yet  there  was  something  of  the 
melancholy  and  mysterious  mingling  with  the  joys 
afforded.  But  I  must  pass  on  for  time  to  bring  the 
issue. 

On  Sunday,  July  31st,  George  accompanied  one  of 
his  fellow-students,  now  Rev.  C.  H.  Webster,  to  New 
Hartford,  and  offered  his  first  discourse  to  an  audience 
of  about  one  score  souls.  His  text  was,  '  It  is  finished.' 
His  fellow-student  offered  his  first  in  the  afternoon,  from 
Gen.  1:1,  'In  the  beginning,'  &c.  The  oppositeness 
of  their  texts  was  an  accident,  and  singular  enough,  too. 

George  professed  to  make  but  little  advance,  during 
this  brief  term.  His  want  of  means  was  not  among  the 
least  of  the  harassing  causes.  The  term  closed  with  an 
exhibition,  iju  which  he  gave  an  original  address,  and 
took  part  in  a  humorous  drama  of  his  own  planning. 
The  last  night  came,  with  its  hilarity ;  the  morning 
dawned,  with  its  partings,  its  assumed  smiles  and  sup- 
pressed tears ;  and  many  a  youth  of  those  happy  summer 
hours  separated  for  the  last  time.  There  was  one  with 
whom  George  parted  with  emotions  mutually  unspoken. 

Homeward  bound  once  more !  0,  home,  blessed 
refuge  for  the  wandering!  Several  days  are  spent 
around  its  hallowed  shrines.  But  life  and  duty  call. 
What  now  is  before  him  whose  course  we  are  following  ? 


48  LIFE-SKETCHES    OP 

He  knows  not.  While  applying  himself  to  the  old 
farm,  he  is  continually  turning  here  and  there  for  some 
prospect.  But  none  opens,  and  his  heart  sinks  down 
into  lonely  dejection.  He  murmurs  like  an  offcast 
child,  yet  looks  up  and  trusts.  He  questions  Heaven, 
to  know  the  direction  of  duty ;  and  waits  for  the  answer, 
for  it  comes  not  now.  Shall  he  abandon  the  higher 
hope  of  life,  and  pass  down  the  tide  of  time  in  ease  at 
home  ?  The  thought  is  like  death.  Again  his  face  is 
towards  New  York,  for  the  country  around  home  prom- 
ises nothing.  The  brand  of  a  heretic  is  on  his  brow, 
to  preclude  the  probability  of  his  securing  a  school.  On 
his  way  to  New  York  he  visits  friends  in  Bedford,  and 
stops  a  day  at  Sing  Sing  camp-meeting.  For  two 
weeks  he  is  again  a  wanderer  in  the  gi^eat  city,  but  finds 
nothing  save  a  place  in  his  oldest  brother's  store  and 
home.  He  cannot  abide.  And  what  now  awaits  the 
oft-defeated  unfortunate  ?  In  this  critical  hour,  he  is 
again  left  alone.  His  elder  brother,  on  whose  sympathy 
and  counsel  he  leaned  with  the  fondest  confidence,  has 
taken  his  departure  to  Canandaigua.  October  2nd, 
1842,  he  writes,  *  It  was  with  a  bleeding  heart  that  I 
'  took  a  last  look  of  the  boat  that  bore  you  far  away 
'  from  my  society.  I  lingered  around  till  she  was  off, 
'  and  saw  her  ploughing  her  way  towards  Albany.  I 
'  was  sick,  lonely,  and  tired  at  heart.     I  felt,  for  a  mo- 

*  ment,  as  though  life  contained  for  me  more  misery  than 
'  happiness.     I  believe  a  tear  fell  from  my  eyes,  as  I 

*  paced  my  way  back.  I  thought  of  the  past,  and  tried 
'  to  look  into  the  future ;  but  all  was  dark.     No  ray  of 

*  hope  shone  to  light  my  pathway.     Ah,  yes,  there  is  a 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  49 

*  light.     It  Is  that  of  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  <'  that 

*  lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world."  ' 

But,  before  this  letter  is  concluded,  he  writes  like 
one  who  never  knew  care  or  sorrow.  No  place  but 
home ;  and  home  again  welcomes  him.  He  pulls  off 
his  coat,  and  goes  at  labor  on  the  farm.  In  the 
same  letter,  he  writes  about  visiting  a  large  party  in 
the  neighborhood  of  home,  where,  among  thirty  or  forty, 
he  finds  no  soul  with  whom  he  can  converse  on  any  topic 
save  that  of  pleasure.  He  tries  one  and  another,  just  for 
an  experiment.  Plays  begin,  and  he  takes  no  relish  in 
participating,  but  assumes  a  seat  in  a  corner,  intro- 
ducing an  experimental  conversation  with  a  charming 
young  lady,  on  various  of  the  most  profound  subjects 
imaginable.  After  listening  for  a  few  moments,  the 
young  lady  starts  up,  and  says  she  '  don't  understand 
the  dead  languages ' !  His  triumph  is  complete,  and  he 
explodes  with  pedantic  laughter.  Wine  is  passed,  and 
he  is  the  only  one  who  declines  it.  While  all  are  sip- 
ping in  silence,  he  has  the  coolness  to  give  a  sound 
lecture  on  total  abstinence,  to  the  offence  of  some,  but 
to  the  shame  of  the  majority.  But  he  cares  for  neither, 
and  answers  with  a  broad  good  humor.  It  was  his  way 
to  speak  out,  come  what  would.  Had  his  tongue  been 
more  oily,  he  would  have  slid  through  the  world  with 
much  less  trouble. 

But  winter  is  now  approaching,  and  he  must  provide 
himself.  The  prospect  is  dreary  around  him.  He  has 
offers  in  Virginia  and  the  west ;  but  no  means  for  travel- 
ling, and  no  face  to  borrow.  So  he  commences  rambling 
over  Westchester  county.  Several  days  in  succession, 
5 


50  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

he  travels,  sometimes  on  foot^  till  he  has  gone  round 
over  a  hundred  miles ;  but  each  day  brings  no  success. 
And  what  is  the  leading  cause?  In  three  several 
places  he  found  good  schools  open,  and  commenced  a 
negotiation ;  in  one  instance,  had  made  a  bargain ;  but, 
on  giving  his  name,  and  revealing  the  fact  that  he 
was  one  of  the  two  Clark  boys,  who  had  espoused 
the  arch  heresy  of  Universalism,  all  negotiation  was  at 
an  end  !  This  is  no  tale  of  the  dark  ages,  0  ye  who 
talk  of  a  millennial  era,  as  though  liberal  Christianity 
had  done  its  work  of  battling  down  dogmatic  bigotry  ! 

*  But,'  he  writes,  October  7th,  '  I  glory  in  it.  I  rejoice 
•in  being  despised,  scorned,  and  rejected.     'Tis  welL 

*  I  seek  no  more  employ  in  Westchester.     My  last  re- 

*  sort  is  the  west,  the  west !  Shall  I  come  ?  Can  I 
'  live  there  this  winter,  and  earn  my  bread  as  teacher, 

*  clerk,  laborer,  anything  respectable  ?     Say  come,  and 

*  I  am  off.     He  who  governs  worlds  is  my  Friend,  Pro- 

*  tector ;  to  Him  I  look,  not  for  bread,  but  for  comfort 

*  without  it.     Though  I  am  despised  and  rejected  for 

*  his  truth,  yet   his  truth  will  I  bear  in  triumph  over 

*  error  and  superstition.     With  the  cry  of  glad  tidings 

*  on  my  tongue,  I  will  go  through  the  world,  trampling 
'  the  dogmas  of  men  beneath  my  feet.     I  grow  fii-mer 

*  every  day,  —  my  faith  stronger,  my  hope  higher,  my 

*  path  brighter,  my  love  greater  ! ' 

A  few  days  after  this,  George  took  a  walk  some 
twelve  miles  north,  into  the  border  of  Putnam  county, 
to  visit  a  friend  (since  Rev.  R.  W.  Keeler,  a  liberal 
clergyman  among  the  Methodists),  and  to  lecture  on 
temperance.     The  morning  after  the  lecture,  he  strolled 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  51 

out  about  two  miles  further  north,  deeply  dejected,  in 
meditation,  and  soon  came  to  a  neat  red  school-house, 
that  seemed  closed.  Seeing  two  men  in  a  field  close  by, 
he  approached  them  to  inquire,  and  found  one  of  the 
men  a  trustee.  Another  man  soon  came  up,  who  proved 
to  be  another  trustee.  In  five  minutes  a  bargain  was 
made,  and  he  *  let  himself  for  the  enormous  sum  of 
twelve  dollars  per  month.'  October  24th  he  began  with 
two  scholars,  but  before  the  term  closed  had  about  fifty. 

He  anticipated  a  dreary  winter.  It  was  in  a  neigh- 
borhood of  honest  people,  deep  in  religious  darkness. 
The  name  of  Universalism  was  a  horror.  The  first 
man  with  whom  George  boarded  assumed  that  he  was  a 
Methodist,  and  insisted  upon  it.  Others  did  the  same. 
He  could  draw  them  into  no  controversies,  nor  give 
them  any  hints  to  make  them  understand  his  peculiar 
belief.  He  talked  and  prayed  Universalism  in  their 
families,  and  in  their  meetings,  and  on  every  possible 
occasion,  and  passed  for  an  *  evangelical ;'  but  the  name 
would  have  shot  a  thunder-bolt  in  their  midst.  The 
winter  passed  with  unusual  interest  and  enjoyment,  not- 
withstanding his  gloomy  forebodings,  and  a  most  desolate 
dearth  in  finances,  again  cutting  ofi"  even  postage-money. 

He  succeeds  in  securing  a  school  for  his  friend 
Charles  near  by ;  and  has  for  a  neighbor,  in  the  same 
capacity,  his  friend,  Keeler.  They  raise  a  club,  called 
the  *  Society  of  Rhetorical  Brethren  ;'  rouse  the  vicinity, 
go  out  lecturing  on  temperance,  debating  in  various 
rural  lyceums,  taking  part  in  religious  meetings,  and 
making  themselves  the  wonder  of  all,  save  critics. 
Jan.  11th,  1843,  George  writes  that  he  has  had  so  much 


&S5  LEFE-SKETCHES   OP 

on  hand  as  to  keep  him  from  sleep  four  nights  in  suc- 
cession, closing  his  letter  along  towards  morning,  while 
in  his  school-room,  with  the  prospect  of  getting  a  few 
snatches  of  slumber  on  one  of  the  benches.  But  he 
always  could  sleep  anywhere,  when  he  had  time. 

The  friendship  at  this  time  rising  between  George 
and  Mr.  R.  W.  Keeler  was  never  after  broken.  They 
held  a  long  controversial  correspondence  on  the  distinct- 
ive doctrines  each  proclaimed  in  a  different  ministry ; 
and  George  hoped  so  much  from  the  liberality  of  his 
friend,  that,  to  the  last,  he  believed  Mr.  Keeler  would 
one  day  embrace  and  preach  the  better  Gospel. 


GEORGE   HENEY   CLARK. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CANANDAIGUA.  —  SCHOOL-SCENES.  —  TREMBLINGS. 

In  the  last  of  March,  1843,  George  suddenly  closed 
his  school  in  Putnam,  to  rejoin  his  elder  brother  in 
Canandaigua.  His  friend  Charles  arranged  to  accom- 
pany him,  but  was  left  at  New  York.  The  reiinion  of 
brothers  was  happy;  but  George  was  disappointed  in 
regard  to  an  opening.  In  his  elder  brother's  absence 
to  Buffalo,  to  supply  the  desk  there,  George  preaches 
for  the  second  time,  filling  the  desk  in  Canandaigua. 
He  writes  deeply  mortified  with  some  little  blunders  he 
made ;    and   among  other  things  states    that,    '  While 

*  coming  down  out  of  the  town-house  (where  the  meet- 

*  ings  were  held  in  C),  what  was  my  surprise  to  see  my 
'  old  friend  Charles  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  I 

*  I  sprang  nearly  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  caught 

*  him  by  the  hand,  and  like  to  have  shaken  his  dear 

*  little  heart  out  of  his  dear  little  body.  Charles  is 
'  moneyless,  and  you  know  I  am  not  much  better  ofi^. 
'  But  give  yourself  no  uneasiness  on  our  account.  As 
'  in  former  days,  we  will  endeavor  to  ride  the  stormy 

*  sea,  clear  of  shoals  and  breakers.     We  find  comfort  in 

*  faith  and  hope,  though  the  mind  is  often  struggling 

*  under  fiscal  oppression.   At  times  we  soar  aloft  in  con- 

5=^ 


54  LIFE-SKETCHES  OP 

'  templation  of  the  Gospel  we  profess,  and  find  a  joy  of 
'  which  to  drink  and  never  thirst.' 

Disappointed  in  regard  to  a  public  school,  he  now 
endeavors  to  start  a  private  one  : 

'  Diary,  April  8th,  1843.  —  No  prospect  of  school, — 
'  no  room  yet.  lOtk.  —  Looking  round  for  school. 
'  No  prospect,  —  feel  sad.  11th.  —  Looks  little 
'  brighter  for  school,  —  not  much.  Engaged  to  preach 
'  in  two  weeks ;  write  sermons,  —  lonesome.  Charles 
'  don't  say  much.  12th.  —  Room  in  view,  —  getting 
'  scholars.  Get  ^aone,  or  only  three  or  four,  —  all  dark. 
'  l^th.  —  All  dark,  —  no  school,  —  all  light.  Ibth. — 
*Hire   fine   room   for    school,  —  fixing   it.      17 th. — 

*  Opened  select  school, —  twelve  scholars.  So  far,  good ; 
'  look  out  for  worse.  24cth.  —  School  increases  some, 
'  —  not  much.     Prospect  not  very  fair.' 

The  school,  however,  was  successful.  A  showy  sign, 
with  ^Select  Academy, —  Clark  and  Bouton,'  was 
hoisted ;  editorials  and  advertisements  appeared  in  the 
village  papers,  and  about  thirty  pupils  were  soon 
obtained.  Several  branches  were  taught  which  George 
had  never  either  studied  or  taught  before,  such  as 
Physiology,  Chemistry,  Natural  Philosophy,  Astronomy, 
French,  &c. ;  but  confidence  carried  everything  along 
smoothly. 

^ April  2^th.  —  Preached  to-day  in  brother's   desk, 

*  third  and  fourth  times.  3Iay  13M. —  Rode  twenty-four 

*  miles  to  Branchport,  to  j^reach  for  brother,  to-morrow. 

*  Ibth.  —  School  increases,  —  most  thirty.  Pretty  fair 
'prospect,  —  very   well,  —  'twill  do.     Hope  large, — 

*  building  desks, —  work  hard. 


GEORGE  HENUT  CLARK.  55 

*May  l^th,  —  "I  love  to  steal  a  while  away 

<  From  every  cumbering  care, 
'  And  spend  the  hour  of  closing  day 
*  In  silent,  solemn  prayer." 

• 

*  2Qth.  —  Took  a  fine  sail,  with  Br.  U.  and  Charles,  on 

*  Canandaigua  Lake.    0,  the  misfortunes  of  being  poor ! 

*  Am  run  ashore,  —  grounded,  —  penniless.' 

June  3d  points  a  simple  illustration  of  physical 
perseverance.  A  sail  on  the  lake  was  projected,  and 
his  elder  brother  started  ahead  in  one  row-boat,  to  leave 
George  and  a  friend  to  follow  in  another.  The  friend 
was  obliged  to  return,  and  left  George  to  row  on  alone, 
after  the  first  boat,  which  by  this  time  had  gone  from 
sight,  near  the  eastern  shore.  Supposing  it  had  gone  on 
the  western  shore,  George  rowed  on  in  pursuit.  He 
rowed  till  he  had  gone  eight  or  ten  miles,  determined 
not  to  abandon  the  pursuit;  but  at  last  he  became 
exhausted.  Hauling  his  craft  ashore,  he  threw  himself 
down  on  the  green  bank,  slept  an  hour,  was  refreshed, 
and  then  rowed  back  home,  glorying  in  having  pulled 
all  day  only  to  show  he  was  not  easily  stopped.  That 
long,  strong  and  lonely  tug  was  something  like  the  tug 
of  his  whole  life,  —  rowing,  rowing,  rowing,  in  spite  of 
wind  and  tide. 

This  was  a  summer  of  happy  companionship.  If  there 
were  cares,  they  were  sweetened  by  the  joys  of  frater- 
nal confidence  and  counsel.  George  sometimes  accom- 
panied his  elder  brother  on  long  rides,  over  Ontario  and 
Yates  counties,  to  meet  distant  appointments ;  and  the 
scenery  of  that  region  will  long  remain  sacred  with 
endearing  associations.     Yet    George  was  so  harassed 


56  LIFE^SKETCHES   OF 

by  small  debts  he  was  unable  to  meet,  and  by  incessant 
toils  in  behalf  of  his  school,  he  was  able  to  make  little 
or  no  progress  in  theological  studies.  Just  as  the 
*  Select  Academy '  had  become  established,  he  left  it  in 
the  care  of  Charles,  to  accept  an  excellent  offer  in  one 
of  the  largest  public  schools  of  the  village.  And  now 
his  star  is  in  the  ascendant.  For  the  first  time,  he 
receives  a  living  income ;  yet  this  is  divided  with  his 
companion  Charles,  in  paying  past  expenses  incurred  in 
fitting  up  the  '  Academy,'  and  in  leasing  it.  Had  he 
been  alone,  he  might  have  been  independent ;  but,  for 
more  than  a  year,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  burdened 
with  responsibilities  not  his  own,  in  order  that  he  might 
favor  one  whose  society  seemed  indispensable  to  his  hap- 
piness, and  for  whom  he  was  almost  willing  to  lay  down 
his  life.  Theirs  was  a  strange  fellowship,  and  was  never 
broken,  but  once,  till  death.  And  the  cause  that  once 
broke  fellowship  was  known  to  none  but  themselves.  A 
week  passed,  during  which  neither  spoke  to  the  other. 
It  was  a  sad  week.  They  ate,  roomed,  slept  together^ 
yet  no  word  passed.  It  was  an  age  of  mutual  agony 
and  remorse.  At  last,  it  was  too  much  for  George.  He 
yielded,  —  owned  himself  in  the  wrong,  —  apologized  ; 
tears  were  shed,  vows  renewed,  and  never  broken. 

During  the  season,  and  through  all  his  stay  in 
Canandaigua,  George  occasionally  preached  at  Bristol, 
Hopewell,  Geneva,  and  several  neighboring  places^ 
although  he  acknowledged  himself  wholly  unfitted  for 
the  duty.  Often  he  grew  almost  disheartened  with  the 
prospect  of  ever  making  a  successful  minister  of  the 
Gospeh    He  had  neither  time  nor  means  to  prepare. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  57 

and  had  pledged  himself  never  to  commence  without 
being  entirely  free  from  debt,  and  able  to  go  on  success- 
fully and  unembarrassed. 

*  Oct.  2\st.  — Awful  thought !  —  twenty- two  years  old 
to-day  ! '  And  at  this  thought  he  breaks  out  on  a  long 
train  of  reflections,  some  of  the  most  mournful  and 
others  of  the   most  hopeful  character.     '  Nov.   12>th. 

*  —  0,  what  a  task  I  have  in  school !  —  sixty  scholars. 

*  Dec.  l^th.  —  The  world  does  not  know  me.' 

A  struggle  about  this  time  rose  in  his  mind  in  regard 
to  a  correspondence  held  with  the  one  whose  acquaint- 
ance began  at  Clinton.  He  felt  it  his  duty  to  pause,  lest 
the  sympathy  naturally  rising  might  lead  to  responsibil- 
ities he  was  unprepared  to  meet.  But  what  course 
should  he  pursue  ?  He  thought  less  of  himself,  he 
cared  less,  than  for  another ;  and  that  other  was  one 
whom  he  feared  was  more  than  a  friend,  and  whose 
youthful  loveliness  wove  round  him  a  hallowing  charm. 

«U.  •4£.  -U.  .Uo 

•Vf"  "TV-  -TV*  'T?' 

1844  opened  with  new  anxiety.  His  elder  brother, 
in  ill  health,  left  Canandaigua  for  an  itinerant  tour 
south.  In  the  spring  of  1842,  George  had  gone  to 
Clinton,  and  in  1843  to  Canandaigua,  mainly  for  the 
purpose  of  enjoying  his  brother's  presence ;  and  now, 
the  second  time,  he  had  taken  his  departure,  and  under 
the  most  painful  circumstances.  For  weeks  he  was 
unable  to  communicate  his  address.  George's  loneliness, 
agony  and  suspense,  were  beyond  lx)unds,  and  he  con- 
jured up  the  most  horrible  fate  for  the  wandering  inva- 
lid. But  he  was  at  last  relieved,  by  a  letter  from  Phil- 
adelphia, whither  the  brother  had  gone,  and  found  a 


58  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

transient  hospitable  home  in  the  house  of  Rev.  Asher 
Moore. 

'  April  4.th.  —  To-day  am  square  with  the  world,  — 
owe  no  man  a  dollar.'  Writing  to  his  brother,  April 
28th,  he  says,  '  We  are  now  alone ;   since  you  are  gone, 

*  no  one  appears  to  care  for  us.     The  best  friends  I  find 

*  are  in  the  little  children  of  my  school,  who  seem  to 
'  appreciate  my  kindness  and  labors.' 

About  this  time,  the  '  Select  Academy '  closes  its 
career,  and  Charles  is  taken  into  one  of  the  departments 
of  George's  school ;  then,  for  a  while,  follows  the  old 
'  Right  Hall '  mode  of  living,  for  adopting  which  they 
are  exposed  to  all  manner  of  town  talk. 

'May  14:th.  —  0,  that  I  knew  myself! ' 

In  a  letter.  May  31st,  he  wrote  about  preaching  in 
Bristol : 

*  Never  did  I  so  fully  realize  the  deep  responsibility 

*  of  standing  before  the  people  to  proclaim  the  Gospel 

*  as  I  did  on  that  occasion.  In  the  afternoon,  the  church 

*  was  full.  My  subject  was  faith.  As  I  paused,  after 
'  finishing  a  long  sentence  on  the  beautiful  and  sublime 

*  theme,  I  gazed  around  upon  the  audience,  whose  every 

*  eye  was  fixed  with  a  piercing  look,  while  all  was  still 

*  as  death ;  and  a  solemn  thought  stole  over  me,  calling 

*  my  mind  to  the  place  I  then  occupied.     And,  0,  who 

*  can  tell  what  I  felt  in  that  moment  ?     I,  a  poor,  illit- 

*  erate  stripling,  —  a  poor,  ignorant  boy  of  yesterday, — 
'  holding  forth  the  solemn  truths  of  God  in  the  sacred 
'  desk,  and  to  a  large,  intelligent  audience  !     My  God  ! 

*  my  soul  shrank  from  that  fixed  and  serious  gaze,  as  I 
'  thought  of  my  own  heart,  and  all  my  imperfections ; 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  59 

*  and  I  almost  sank  to  my  seat.     Never  shall  I  forget 

*  the  feeling  I  then  experienced,  and  such  as  I  had  never 

*  had  before.     But  I  did  not  lose  the  command  neces- 

*  sary  for  me  to  go  through  the  discourse.  But, 
'  0,  Uriah,  I  cannot  preach !  I  am  not  fit.  I  am 
'  not  right ;  my  temperament,  constitution,  qualifica- 
'  tion,  all,  are  at  war  with  the  very  principles  which 

*  should  direct  the  sacred  office  of  the  ministry.     It 

*  seems  almost  impossible  for  me  to  go  on.  Yet  I 
'  must.  It  is  all  for  which  I  live,  and  have  long  lived. 
'  It  has  been  uppermost  in  my  mind  for  years,  —  and 

*  shall  I  now  give  it  up  ? ' 

Although  such  were  his  humiliating  emotions,  he  was 
often  called  to  speak,  and  seldom  declined.  On  several 
occasions  he  officiated  before  the  Ontario  Association  of 
Fourierists,  a  body  flourishing  for  a  short  time  in  the 
vicinity  of  Canandaigua,  and  then  scattering  to  the  four 
winds  of  community.  His  school  continued  laborious 
and  engrossing,  yet  afforded  him  many  sources  of  pride 
and  enjoyment.  On  the  morning  of  July  4th,  1844, 
he  was  aroused  from  sleep  by  a  loud  shout  under  his 
window,  and  on  jising,  found  a  great  crowd  of  pupils 
giving  him  an  Independence  salute,  preparatory  to  a 
celebration  he  had  arranged  for  the  day.  Such  applause 
he  regarded  more  honorable  and  encouraging  than 
applause  coming  from  the  adult  multitude.  At  this 
time,  George's  correspondence  was  limited  to  his  elder 
brother,  now  an  invalid  at  home,  and  to  one  whom  he 
was  about  to  visit  and  see  for  the  last  time.  He  went, 
—  he  saw ;  hours  passed  swiftly  amid  old  scenes  and 
new  emotions;  and  again  he  parted,  but  not  soon  to 


60  LITE-SKETCHES   OF 

forget  one  face,  beaming  with  a  sweet  smile,  wMch 
miglit  never  more  shine  on  his  path.  Yet  the  end  was 
not  here. 

At  this  time,  no  worship  of  his  choice  was  held 
in  Canandaigua,  and  he  occasionally  attended  other 
churches,  where  he  > was  cordially  welcomed.  A  Sab- 
bath's service,  conducted  by  a  minister  of  his  own  faith, 
was  hailed  with  joy ;  and,  on  one  occasion,  he  speaks 
with  rapture  of  having  enjoyed  hearing  Rev.  G.  W. 
Gage,  who  preached  in  the  town  hall,  while  home  on 
a  visit  to  his  father's,  near  the  village.  The  summer 
passes,  with  cares  unabated,  but  rather  increasing ;  and, 
at  times,  George  seems  to  have  lost  all  patience  with 
the  pupils  of  his  charge,  though  he  indulges  no  maledic- 
tions on  paper,  except  those  of  a  humorous  kind. 

In  December,  he  commences  his  relation  with  Odd 
Fellowship,  and  stops  not  till  he  has  passed  into  the 
grand  lodge,  occupying  many  of  the  most  responsible 
positions.  His  initiation  into  this  order  leads,  at  last,  to 
his  connection  with  the  Masons,  the  Sons  and  the  Cadets 
of  Temperance,  in  all  of  which  he  strove  to  render 
himself  active  and  useful,  though  they  consumed  much 
of  his  time,  and  he  had  often  resolved  to  drop  some  of 
their  responsibilities.  But,  having  begun,  it  was  seldom 
his  to  stop  short  of  doing  his  utmost. 

His  elder  brother  had  now  recovered  health,  and  settled 
at  Lockport,  N.  Y.  George  visited  him ;  and,  while  there, 
had  his  hopes  for  the  ministry  again  dampened.  Lead- 
ing in  prayer  at  a  funeral-service  with  his  brother,  he 
became  embarrassed,  and  made  a  failure, — at  least,  in  his 
own  judgment.     This  event  so  oppressed  him  that  he 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  61 

solemnly  requested  it  should  never  after  be  mentioned. 
'  Another  failure  like  that,'  said  he,  '  would  drive  me 
mad.'  Though,  while  on  this  visit,  he  preached  at 
Lockport,  to  redeem  himself,  he  felt  but  little  encour- 
aged. The  old  year  closed,  and  the  new  began,  with 
but  few  new  hopes.  His  Charles  is  ill,  his  toils  are 
hard,  his  time  rolls  fast,  he  mourns  the  trivial  manner 
in  which  it  slides,  he  rebukes  himself  for  an  irrepressi- 
ble mirthfulness  of  his  nature,  and  prays  for  a  more 
solemn  realization  of  his  mission.  He  regards  his 
mirthfulness  an  impediment  to  his  ministry,  and  face- 
tiously suggests  some  grave  employment  for  a  while,  like 
Mark  Tapley,  to  effect  a  cure. 
6 


LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

LA.KE  SCENE.  —  THE  FALLS. LOCKPORT.  —  NEW 

ENGLAND. 

The  year  1845  must  now  pass,  with  only  a  glance. 
It  begins  with  the  illness  of  Charles,  leaving  George 
with  over  a  hundred  pupils  in  charge,  —  a  charge  that 
almost  wearies  out  his  life.  Yet  he  is  engaged  in  vari- 
ous public  services  besides,  like  lecturing  on  temperance, 
laboring  in  fraternal  societies,  occasionally  preaching, 
holding  oral  discussions  on  various  questions,  attending 
and  often  speaking  before  a  new  association  of  teachers, 
sometimes  contributing  articles  for  the  press,  and  pre- 
paring his  school  for  celebrations.  His  progress  in 
divinity,  however,  was  slow.  He  enjoyed  no  available 
advantages  either  for  study  or  worship.  Occasionally 
he  heard  and  assisted  Rev.  Wm.  Queal,  then  in  Bristol. 
He  speaks  of  a  ministerial  visit  from  Rev.  Mr.  Strick- 
land, as  a  God-send.  His  spiritual  nature  is  not  left 
wholly  uncultivated.  Devotional  exercises  are  intro- 
duced in  the  retirement  of  his  room,  and  he  unites  with 
his  companion  in  many  hours  of  holy  communion. 

But  now  another  cloud  comes  over  his  life.  For  three 
years  he  has  enjoyed  an  uninterrupted  communion  with 
one  far  away,  and  one  who  has  held  over  him  an  influ- 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  63 

ence  of  the  most  genial  character.  But  the  dream  is 
past,  with  all  its  radiant  roseate  hues,  so  long  rendering 
life  a  mysterious  charm,  and  painting  the  landscape 
of  the  future.  And  thus,  0,  ever  thus,  fades  many 
a  dear  vision  of  youthful  years,  leaving  the  Alpine 
streams  of  love  to  flow  back  over  the  heart,  more  cold 
and  desolate  in  aching  remembrance  of  the  world's 
bursting  bubbles.  ^  ^  ^  But,  with  a  soul  resigned, 
though  bleeding,  he  exclaims,  '  Farewell  to  all  that 
dream !     I  awake  to  find  it  but  a  dream.' 

On  the  fifth  of  July,  1845,  as  the  summer  sun  is 
sinking  behind  the  hills  that  rise  on  the  western  bank 
of  Canandaigua  Lake,  and  throwing  its  beams  over  the 
blue  summit  that  surmounts  the  eastern  marge,  two 
young  men  are  lingering  along  the  shore  of  that  beauti- 
ful sheet  of  water,  musing  in  serene  meditation  amid  the 
entrancing  scenes  and  associations  of  God's  glorious 
world.  They  are  there  in  fulfilment  of  a  solemn  vow 
to  Heaven.  Their  thoughts  wander  back  through  cen- 
turies, —  they  cross  ocean  and  desert,  till,  at  last,  they 
stand  side  by  side  with  Jesus  and  John,  on  the  green 
sward  of  Jordan's  bank.  The  placid  lake  before  them 
is  their  baptismal  font.  As  the  sun  declines,  and  stars 
come  out,  reposing  in  beauty  upon  the  clear  lake,  hand 
in  hand  they  pass  down  the  marble-white  sand  of  the 
shore,  and  stand  in  the  limpid  pool  that  symbolizes  the 
holy  water  of  everlasting  life.  Each  in  turn  lifts  a 
serene  prayer  with  heavenward  brow,  and  each  is  im- 
mersed beneath  the  tide  in  the  name  of  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Spirit.  No  pageant  throng  gazed  upon  the 
scene,  —  no  eye  but  Heaven's!     It  was  George  and 


64  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

Charles,  alone  with  their  God,  consecrating  themselves 
to  the  mission  of  Him  who  stood  with  John  by  the 
stream  of  Jordan.  And  when,  arm  in  arm,  they 
rose  in  silence  to  the  green  bank  of  the  lake,  and  sat 
down  listening  to  the  melody  of  nature  around,  with 
the  stars  above,  heard  they  not  that  heavenly  benison 
that  fell  mingling  with  the  rippling  murmur  of  Jordan  ? 
A  brief  minute  in  George's  diary  is  all  that  tells  of  this 
impressive  scene.  Neither  he  nor  Charles  ever  named 
it  to  another. 

During  the  summer,  a  memorable  journey  was  made 
to  Niagara  Falls  and  vicinity.  Riding  along  the  steep 
banks  of  Niagara,  —  now  bathing  in  its  waters,  then 
standing  on  the  ramparts  of  the  old  fort  that  guards  the 
Canadian  frontier  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  —  next,  at 
foot  of  Brock's  monument,  straining  the  eyes  over  a 
magnificent  scene  of  lake,  and  stream,  and  woodland ; 
now,  awed  in  the  presence  of  the  great  cataract ;  then, 
plunging  into  its  awful  caverns,  beneath  foaming  sheets 
of  thunder ;  and  next,  seeking  for  slumber  at  night  amid 
the  majestic  lullaby  of  roaring  waters !  Sleep  soon 
came  to  George;  but  not  to  Charles  and  the  elder 
brother.  So  they  sallied  forth  to  seek  it  on  Goat  Isl- 
and, at  midnight.  After  rambling  and  apostrophizing 
for  a  while,  they  sought  the  retreat  of  an  old  shed,  and, 
throwing  themselves  down  on  a  board  bench,  invited 
Somnus  to  do  his  best,  with  the  aid  of  the  cataract. 
Charles  rose  several  times,  after  making  inefifectual 
effort,  and  seemed  sleepless,  with  a  nervous  con- 
sciousness of  his  nearness  to  the  great  wonder  of  waters. 
Its  eternal  roar  thrilled  every  fibre  of  his  being,  and 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  65 

filled  him  with  solemn '  thoughts  of  God  and  eternity, 
and  thoughts  which  he  strove  to^  pour  forth  upon  the 
night  in  strains  of  surpassing  eloquence.  Towards 
morning  the  fitful  sleepers  on  Goat  Island  awoke,  finding 
themselves  drenched  by  a  shower  well  calculated  to 
dampen  their  romance,  and  drive  them  to  the  shelter  of 
Gen.  Whitney's  Cataract  House. 

Towards  the  close  of  1845,  George  commences  a 
series  of  sketches  for  the  Ontario  Repository,  which 
continue  for  several  months,  eliciting  some  sharp  criti- 
cism, though  passing  quite  popular  with  the  mass  of 
readers,  being  of  a  local  character,  and  called,  '  Rambles 
about  town.'  In  these  '  Rambles,'  he  is  unsparing  on 
every  place  of  inebriation,  whether  high  or  low ;  and, 
though  menaced  with  a  robe  of  *  tar  and  feathers,'  he  is 
relentless.  In  the  spring  of  1846,  he  closed  his  third 
year  in  Canandaigua.  He  dismissed  his  school,  with 
tears  on  the  part  of  teachers  and  pupils,  and  felt  pride 
in  his  humble  success.  And  now  his  mind  was  more 
seriously  turned  towards  the  ministry.  But  the  time 
was  not  yet.  His  means  were  inadequate.  He  could 
save  but  little,  without  living  on  the  '  Right  Hall '  sys- 
tem; and  that  he  had  been  compelled  to  abandon  for  a 
boarding-place  which  would  be  considered  respectable 
in  a  community  of  aristocratic  distinctions.  Yet  here 
he  seems  less  concerned  for  himself  than  for  his  poor, 
feeble  friend,  Charles,  who,  though  he  has  just  made  his 
first  and  successful  appearance  as  a  public  speaker,  is 
now  more  ill,  out  of  employment,  and  deeply  in  debt. 
He  struggles  to  sustain  him,  but  finds  it  impossible ; 
yet  resolves  not  to  abandon  him,  come  what  will. 
6* 


66  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

What  is  his  duty  ?  This  now  is  the  great  question. 
Shall  he  abandon  a  sure  dependence,  and,  with  all  his 
want,  his  weakness,  and  uncertain  success,  before  him, 
throw  himself  on  the  mercies  of  the  world,  as  a  herald 
of  Christ?  He  ponders,  prays,  weeps,  hesitates,  calls 
on  his  elder  brother  to  command,  —  trembles,  and  dares 
not  presume  on  beginning  yet ;  and  so  he  resumes  his 
school  for  the  summer. 

A  change  here  takes  place  in  the  social  relations  of 
his  elder  brother,  in  the  festivities  of  which  George 
cheerfully  participates,  but  describes  himself  as  half 
jealous  in  tolerating  it.  Added  to  this,  he  is  now  alone 
in  Canandaigua.  Charles  has  gone  to  New  York,  as  an 
invalid,  with  no  hope  of  returning.  George  is  desolate, 
and  feels  most  in  remembering  how  that  dear  compan- 
ion of  so  many  years  of  mutual  struggle  may  suffer  and 
pine  in  illness,  pinched  with  poverty,  and  oppressed  by 
creditors  who  little  know  his  heart.  During  his  absence, 
George  pleads  for  him,  softens  his  creditors,  takes  his 
case  before  the  fraternities  of  which  both  are  members, 
repels  all  disreputable  intimations,  and  at  last,  in  triumph, 
sends  his  friend  abundant  pecuniary  relief. 

Among  the  many  incidents  revealing  the  heart  of 
him  whose  history  I  write  are  those  relating  to  the 
death  of  his  pupils.  His  diary  records  many,  but  none 
more  touching  than  this :  — '  And  what  a  scene  was 
'  here  !  Her  father  is  a  man  of  noble  mind  and  deep 
*  feeling.  The  little  girl  now  dead  was  six  years  old, 
'handsome,  affectionate,  intelligent,  and  fondly  doted 
'upon.  The  mother  is  an  invalid,  and  the  father  was 
'seated  by  her  side.     We  bore  the  corse  before  them. 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  67 

*The  mother  was  calm,  but  a  look  of  unutterable  agony 
«rose  on  the  father's  face.     He  stooped  down,  kissed 

*  the  cold  lips  and  forehead  of  his  dead  child ;  and  for  a 

*  moment,  so  deep  was  his  anguish,  reason  wavered,  and 

*  he  stood  before  us  a  ma7iiac,  "  0  don't,  don't  take  her 
i  away  !  —  speak  once  more,  Georgia  !  —  speak  to  your 

*  papa,  speak !  —  don't  take  her  away  yet !  "—  and  he 
'buried  his  face,  bathed  in  tears  of  woe.  0,  God!  it 
'  was  too  much !     He  begged,  sobbed,  groaned,  till  we 

*  bore  her  from  his  sight ;   and  then  he  sank  back  in  the 

*  arms  of  a  brother,  wild  and  uncontrollable.     At  last, 

*  being  assured  that  we  were  all  good  brothers,  0.  F.'s, 

*  he  seemed  more  calm,  and  followed  us  as  we  moved  off, 
<  saying,  "  Carry  her  softly,  my  good  brothers !     Will 

*  she  not  speak  to  me  once  more  ?     0  yes,  she  will,  —  I 

*  know  she  will !  "    The  coffin  was  lowered,  and  the  un- 

*  dertaker  stood  ready  to  cover  it  up.     The  father  beck- 

*  oned  to  me,,  and  said,  "  My  good  brother,  don't  let  that 
*man  throw  the  dirt  upon  her,  — be  so  kind  as  to  do  it 
*for  me."     I  seized  a  spade,  —  we  soon  raised  a  mound 

*  over  her  who  was  almost  the  life  of  a  father,  and  we 
« walked  away ;  bifit  0,  never  to  forget  that  scene  !  — 
« Spent  the  night  at  the  house  of  the  afflicted  family.' 

From  the  day  Charles  left  him,  Canandaigua  was  no 
longer  his  home.  He  was  unable  to  drive  away  his 
loneliness,  or  find  one  to  fill  the  place  left  vacant.  Yet 
he  was  daily  rising  in  favor  with  the  public,  and  was 
so  far  honored  as  to  receive  an  invitation  to  deliver  the 
oration  at  the  citizens'  celebration  of  the  4th  of  July, 
1846.  He  was  at  first  overwhelmed  with  surprise  and 
gratitude,  and  staggered  at  the  thought  of  accepting  a 


68  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

place  hitherto  occupied  by  some  of  the  first  orators  in 
western  New  York.  But  he  prepared,  and  the  glo- 
rious day  came ;  —  a  day  of  which  his  wildest  ambition 
had  never  dreamed.  The  services  were  held  in  the  large 
Congregational  church  of  Canandaigua ;  and  George 
rose  before  an  audience  numbering  nearly  fifteen  hun- 
dred, acquitting  himself  with  repeated  applause.  It 
was  an  hour  of  triumph  that  rewarded  him  for  years  of 
toil  and  suffering.  Then  came  the  dinner  festivities,  of 
which   he  says,   '  I  ate  but  little.     After  the  dessert> 

*  came  the  Bacchanalian  mirth,  with  toasts  and  cheers. 

*  The  compliments  of  great  men  were  presented  me  in  a 

*  glass  of  wine  J  but  drank  by  myself  in  good  cold  water, 
'  If  this  is  high  life,  I  want  no  more  of  it.' 

After  dinner  he  mingles  with  the  crowd,  enjoys 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  day,  and  is  flattered  in  hearing 
many  commendations  of  his  oration.  He  was  urged  to 
publish  the  effort,  but  wisely  declined,  as  he  never  wrote 
either  sermons  or  lectures  for  other  than  the  pui'pose  of 
delivery.  He  was  sensible,  as  many  others  should  be, 
of  the  vast  difference  between  a  discourse  when  spoken 
and  when  printed,  and  especially  when  spoken  by  one 
of  a  commanding  voice  and  presence.  At  this  time, 
though  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  George  had  just  at- 
tained his  lull  height  of  person,  and  possessed  a  strength 
and  vigor  of  early  manhood  which  he  enjoyed  only  for  a 
short  time  afterwards. 

Here  we  have  the  record  of  another  death  among  his. 
pupils,  —  a  boy  in  his  teens ;  and  the  mother  is  in  de- 
spair over  the  fear  her  son  may  have  gone  to  a  world 
of  woe.    Her  cries  and  wailings  rend  his  heart  with 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  W 

lanntterable  anguish ;  and  while  he  labors  to  soothe  her 
fears  with  the  Gospel  hope  of  illimitable  grace,  he  is 
more  solemnly  impressed  with  the  duty  of  going  forth 
to  the  ministry  of  that  Gospel,  if  by  any  means  he  can 
be  the  agent  of  saving  some  from  the  bondage  of  error. 

Now,  with  the  close  of  summer,  1846,  farewell  to 
Canandaigua ;  to  its  school  of  many  toils  and  joys ;  to 
its  scenes  of  social  companionship ;  to  its  three  years 
and  a  half  of  struggle  and  success ;  to  its  broad  street 
of  splendid  mansions  and  shaded  walks ;  to  its  beautiful 
lake,  and  the  blue  summit  from  which  hope  has  oft  as- 
cended to  Heaven ;  —  all  farewell !  and,  joining  his  elder 
brother,  in  a  few  hours  the  home  hills  and  dales  of  old 
Westchester  are  hailed  with  joy.  But  time  flies;  and, 
after  a  few  days  of  brief  greetings  and  partings  at  home, 
again  to  the  wide  world!  Returning  by  New  York, 
George  is  taken  ill,  and  writes  in  his  diary,  September 
13th,  1846,  '  0,  how  bad  I  feel !  —  head  aches,  stomach 

*  heaves.  Spend  the  day  on  bed,  —  strange  for  me  to  be 
Vso  sick!     Br.  U.   practises   hydropathy  on   me.     0, 

*  horrid  !    lAih.  —  All  that  is  left  of  me,  from  the  bloody 

*  mosquitoes,  &c, ,  feels  better.    Well, — go  about  my  busi- 

*  ness.'  The  United  States  Convention  of  Universalists  at 
Troy  was  taken  on  the  journey,  and  the  season  was  one 
of  high  spiritual  enjoyment.  For  the  first  time  he  list- 
ened to  Rev.  Eo  H.  Chapin,  and  was  bewildered  with 
admiration  of  the  masterly  discourse  of  that  well-known 
pulpit  orator.  At  the  close  of  the  meeting  he  took 
cars  for  Lockport,  to  supply  a  few  Sundays  for  his 
brother.  His  old  friend  Charles  accompanied  him  as 
&i  as  Canandaigua,  where  he  was  to  remain.     At  Roch- 


70  LIFE-SKETCHES  OF 

ester  he  stopped  to  spend  a  season  with  his  friend  E-ev. 
Almon  Gage,  and  met  his  esteemed  brother  Eev.  D.  K. 
Lee. 

Having  received  letters  of  fellowship  from  the  On- 
tario Association,  and  given  up  all  else,  his  ministry  was 
now  begun,  though  with  little  satisfaction  to  himself. 
Supplying  for  his  brother  at  Lockport  till  hisTeturn,  his 
design  was  to  remain  as  student  for  a  while,  and  depend 
on  transient  engagements  for  a  support.  During  an 
illness  of  Rev.  J.  Chase,  of  Middleport,  he  supplied  for 
him  a  few  weeks ;  and  in  the  interim  applied  himself 
with  assiduity,  though  often  depressed  with  the  dark- 
ness before  him,  and  suffering  some  from  the  ennui  of 
being  released  from  the  incessant  activity  of  the  school- 
room. But  now  another  change.  He  had  come  to 
Lockport  for  the  purj^ose  of  being  with  his  elder  brother, 
as  before  he  had  gone  to  Clinton  and  Canandaigua. 
And  now  his  brother  had  set  his  face  eastward.  In 
January,  1847,  he  engaged  with  the  First  Society  in 
Lowell,  Massachusetts,  and  George  was  left  to  take  his 
place  at  Lockport.  He  shrank  from  the  responsibility, 
but  there  was  no  release ;  and  he  went  to  work,  prepar- 
ing and  preaching  three  discoui^ses,  almost  every  Sun- 
day, durmg  the  winter,  besides  engaging  in  other  public 
capacities. 

^  Diary,  January  11th,  1847. — This  is  indeed  an 
'  eventful  era  in  my  life.  I  begin  to  realize  the  respons- 
'ibility  of  my  calling.  0,  how  shall  I  express  myself? 
'  God  Almighty,  aid  me  in  discharging  the  new  duties 
'  devolving  upon  me !  February  12th.  —  Feel  well  and 
*  strong  i  health  good,  appetite  good,  sleep  good,  all  good.* 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  71 

A  corxiplimentary  visit  was  made  liim  during  the 
winter,  yielding  a  gift  of  near  one  hundred  dollars,  with 
"which  he  felt  rich ;  yet  expresses  himself  rather  enihar- 
rassed  in  taking  it,  as  it  came  so  easy,  and  unlike  the 
little  pittance  for  which  he  had  long  been  toiling.  Pie 
was  not  without  some  annoyance  in  the  way  of  fault- 
finding among  his  parishioners ;  and,  would  delicacy 
allow,  one  illustration,  of  an  extraordinary  character, 
might  be  given,  when  he  was  recj[uested  to  model  his 
preaching  after  the  style  of  a  volume  of  sermons  handed 
him,  which  he  describes  as  having  been  '  preached  some 
'  time  before  the  fall  of  Adam ;  as  blue  as  the  smoke  of 

*  the  fabulous  pit,  —  sermons  as  long  as  Exodus,  and  as 

*  false  as  Sinbad  the  sailor  ' !  This  case  of  honest  yet 
misjudged  counsel  taught  him  the  duty  of  preaching 
his  own  convictions. 

Though  the  winter  was  one  of  hard  labor  and  uncertain 
success  for  the  future,  it  passed  in  unusual  cheerfulness  ; 
and  his  correspondence  was  never  more  free  or  joyous. 
When  spring  came,  he  had  ten  written  sermons  ahead. 
He  had  read  more  than  for  years  together,  and  found  it 
necessary  to  apply  his  reading.  He  had  also  labored  to 
cultivate  his  devotional  nature.  He  suffered  most  for 
the  want  of  counsel,  and  mourned  the  absence  of  friend 
Bouton.  While  in  Lockport,  however,  for  a  while,  he 
enjoyed  the  society  of  Rev.  E.  Case,  Jr.,  who  had  just 
entered  the  ministry;  and  a  sympathy  arose  between 
them,  continuing  through  life.  The  allusion  of  Mr. 
Case  himself,  in  a  letter  to  the  author,  may  express 
more  than  words  of  my  own  :  — '  My  more  particular 

*  acquaintance  with  George  was  after  you  left  him  to 


72  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

*  supply  your  place  in  Lockport.  I  seem  to  be  sitting 
'  in  the  same  old  room  in  the  American  where  I  used  to 

*  sit  with  you,  and  whose  windows  look  out  upon  the 
'  long  reaches  of  dark  old  forest-land  that  spread  away 
'  in  the  dim  distance  towards  the  shores  of  Ontario.  I 
'  seem  to  sit  with  him  again  on  that  green  and  flowei-y 
'  bank,  whither  he  and  I,  as  you  and  I,  used  to  wander, 
'  overlooking  the  lower  village,  and  commanding  a  fine 

*  view  of  the  country  that  swept  away,  interspersed  with 
'  farms  and  openings,  to  the  same  great  inland  sea.  I 
'  hear  that  same  familiar  voice,  always  so  interesting  in 
'  converse,  still  sounding  in  my  ears ;  I  behold  that  same 
'  glad  smile,  —  the  same  lineaments  of  feature,  —  all, 
'  all  as  fresh  as  of  yesterday ;  and  can  never  forget  them. 
'Who  could,  that  has  known  George  as  I  have  known 
'him?' 

Worn  down  by  the  labors  of  his  first  settlement, 
anxious  for  the  presence  and  counsel  of  his  elder 
brother,  in  June  he  obtains  leave  of  absence  from  Lock- 
port,  and,  pronouncing  a  discourse  half  valedictory  in 
tone,  starts  for  Lowell,  with  a  presentiment  of  returning 
to  western  New  York  no  more.  He  felt  that  his 
labors  in  Lockport  had  been  premature,  though  well 
received,  and  thought  it  his  duty  to  begin  anew.  Stop- 
ping a  season  at  Canandaigua,  to  see  old  friends,  and 
among  them  Charles,  he  reaches  Albany  at  night,  and 
retires  to  his  hotel,  with  a  promise  from  the  landlord 
to  be  waked  up  for  the  first  train  east  in  the  morning. 
At  eight  in  the  morning,  he  wakes,  and  grows  indignant 
at  the  negligent  landlord,  who  has  allowed  him  to  sleep 
an  hour  after  the  train  has  gone ;  but  satisfies  himself  ia 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  73 

expressing  his  indignation,  and  waiting  eleven  hours  for 
another  train.  Strange  feelings  come  over  him,  as  he 
dashes  on  over  the  rattling  rails,  and  nears  the  great 
metropolis  of  New  England.  His  wonder  is  soon 
abated.    His  heart  is  made  warm  by  the  greetings  of  his 

friend  A.  T ,  and  he  is  soon  put  in  communication 

with  the  fraternal  spirits  of  Cornhill. 

But  the  first  news  of  Cornhill  is  dampening.  It  is 
that  the  society  by  which  he  had  been  invited,  and  was 
engaged  to  preach  as  candidate,  had  just  settled  a  pas- 
tor? The  bitter  disappointment  with  which  he  was 
thus  met,  on  his  introduction  to  New  England,  did  not, 
however,  dishearten  him,  and  was  alleviated  as  soon  as 
he  found  himself  in  the  new  home  of  his  brother,  in 
Lowell,  where  he  concluded  for  a  time  to  remain.  On 
the  two  Sundays  following,  he  supplied  at  Dover,  N. 
H.,  pleased  with  his  visit,  and  the  hospitality  of  his 
friends.  Dr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Cheever.  With  New  Eng- 
land, as  a  whole,  he  was  highly  gratified,  though  disap- 
pointed, as  many  are,  in  regard  to  some  things  peculiar 
to  its  social  atmosphere. 

The  summer  passes  happily.  George  resigns  at 
Lockport,  and  endeavors  to  study  at  Lowell,  in  com- 
pany with  his  young  friend,  J.  S.  Tuttle,  whose  cir- 
cumstances soon  render  it  necessary  for  him  to  abandon 
the  ministerial  profession,  for  other  and  secular  pur- 
suits. But  George  studies  with  a  poor  heart,  with- 
out some  definite  prospect ;  and  so  he  continues  to 
look  around  at  his  leisure,  and  supply  on  Sundays  as 
favorable  opportunities  offer.  He  preaches  at  Lynn, 
"West  Cambridge,  Bridgewater,  Hingham,  Newmarket, 
7 


74  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

Lowell,  and  Salem;  at  some  of  whicli  places,  there  are 
vacancies  lie  is  unable  to  fill ;  at  others,  he  looks  with 
hope,  but  is  defeated,  and  one  or  two  invitations  are 
extended,  but  declined.  His  visit  at  West  Cambridge 
was  enhanced  by  meeting  Miss  L.  M.  Barker,  and  her 
nieces,  friends  of  other  days  in  Clinton,  —  Miss  Barker, 
at  that  time,  being  principal  of  the  young  ladies'  semi- 
nary, in  Whittemore  Hall.  Yet  this  social  greeting 
was  saddened  by  associations  of  another,  whose  acquaint- 
ance was  made  at  Clinton,  and  whom  he  had  long 
striven  to  forget. 

Many  sunny  days  passed  in  Salem,  with  his  brother 
Lee,  and  others  whom  he  had  reasons  to  remember  with 
joy,  —  and  yet,  a  joy  tinged  with  melancholy,  and 
a  melancholy  half  rising  from  self-regret,  and  half  from 
emotions  too  mysterious  to  define.  Wandering  over  the 
haunted  ground  of  ancient  witchcraft  legends,  sailing  on 
the  waters  that  environ  Salem,  or  sitting  on  the  shore 
washed  by  the  inroUing  waves  of  the  Atlantic,  those 
hours  were  among  the  most  gladsome  of  his  early  so- 
journ in  New  England.  But  they  left  remembrances 
over  which  hung  a  shadowy  veil,  like  many  of  the 
fairest  scenes  of  early  endearments.  0,  time,  time ! 
thy  changes  were  melancholy,  indeed,  with  no  light  from 
the  star  of  eternity ! 

While  in  Salem,  George  visited  a  Miss  Purbeck, 
who,  for  seventeen  years,  had  been  confined  to  her 
couch  daily,  and  almost  hourly,  subject  to  indescribable 
agonies.  '  0  God,  0  God ! '  he  exclaimed,  '  I  cannot 
describe  her.'  While  he  stood  by  her  bed-side,  once 
every  few  moments  she  was  thrown  into  spasms  and 


GEORGE   HENIir   CLARK.  75 

convulsions,  which  sent  her  bounding  backward  and  for- 
ward, as  though  every  bone  was  snapping,  and  every 
fibre  stretching  with  the  keenest  torture ;  and  yet  she 
talked  calmly  and  patiently  of  the  mercy  of  Heaven. 
He  turned  from  the  scene,  faint,  sick,  trembling,  with  a 
grateful  heart,  resolving  to  struggle  henceforth  against 
murmuring  at  whatever  his  lot  might  be. 


76  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LAWRENCE. ON,    ON,    WESTWARD. ELLA. LIFE 

EARNEST. 

Attending  the  United  States  Convention,  in  New 
York,  September,  1847,  George  again  visited  his  home 
in  Cross  River;  and,  after  supplying  two  Sundays  in 
Danbury,  Conn.,  where  a  humble  offer  was  made,  he 
returns  to  Lowell,  with  another  effort  to  study  a  while, 
without  seeking  a  settlement. 

'  Diary,  October  11th.  —  Meditate  on  the  mutations 
'  of  life,  and  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  future.  No 
*  use  trying,  —  dark.  lAth.  —  Contentment  is  becom- 
*ing  with  me  more  than  a  matter  of  necessity,  and 
'  I  am  disposed  to  avail  myself  of  all  its  virtues  and 
'  advantages.  October  21th.  —  Have  learned  a  few 
'lessons  on  patience;  find  nothing  is  gained  by  fret- 
'  ting,  and  I  am  done.' 

These  are  bright  autumn  days,  during  whose  hours 
of  release  from  study,  many  a  delightful  ramble,  with 
book  in  hand,  is  had  along  the  banks  of  the  Merrimack, 
musing  in  social  and  spiritual  communion  amid  its  now 
gorgeous  scenes,  and  listening  to  the  melody  of  its 
waters.  Two  Sundays  are  spent  in  worship  with  his 
elder  brother ;  one  in  supplying  at  Nashua,  one  for  the 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  77 

Third  Society  in  Lowell ;  and  the  great  era  of  his  life 
then  begins. 

On  Sunday,  October  31st,  1847,  his  twenty-sixth 
birth-day,  he  ofl&ciates,  the  first  time,  for  the  little  band 
of  believers  in  the  new  town  of  Lawrence,  then  called 
'  the  New  City,'  located  on  the  Merrimack,  eight  miles 
below  Lowell.  The  village  was  then  about  two  years 
old,  and  embraced  a  population  of  near  four  thousand, 
many  of  whom  were  temporary  residents.  The  first 
divine  service  held  under  Universalist  ministration  was 
in  the  spring  of  1847,  and  was  conducted  by  Rev.  T. 
Whittemore,  the  pioneer  of  many  other  new  fields. 

At  the  time  of  George's  visit,  no  regular  service  was 
held,  no  organization  existed.  The  little  band  was  feeble 
and  transient ;  and  though  there  was  some  heroic  zeal, 
no  very  hopeful  prospect  was  before  them.  But  Mr. 
W.  D.  Joplin  assumed  the  responsibility  of  an  arrange- 
ment for  this  Sunday ;  an  encouraging  meeting  was  held, 
and  George  engaged  for  another  Sunday.  His  reflec- 
tions, on  this,  his  twenty-sixth  birth-day,  seem  to  take  a 
prophetic  turn : 

'Where  is  she   who   bore   me,    nursed   me,   smiled 

*  upon  me,  loved  me  in  infancy  ?  0,  where  is  she  gone  ? 
<  —  gone,  ere  manhood  came,  or  my  brow  was  wrinkled 
'  with  care  ?  Gone,  gone  to  God !  0,  had  she  lived  till 
i  Qow !  —  but  she  did  not !  I  think  of  her,  and  ask.  Is 
'her  spirit  hovering  around,  and  watching  over  her 
'child?     0,  land  of  the  dead!   send  her  back,  if  she 

*  now  sees  not  her  boy !  —  send  her  back,  that  she  may 
'  breathe  into  his  soul  her  spirit  of  wisdom,  courage,  and 

*  love !     I. have  taken  but  one  step  on  the  great  ladder 

7^ 


78  LIFE-SKEiCHES   OF 

'  of  usefulness ;  and  I  must  climb,  climb.  Let  me  date 
'  my  labors  in  the  great  cause  from  this  day.  Here  let 
'  me  consecrate  myself  anew,  and  start  with  new  impulse. 

*  0,  how  should  I  pray  for  strength,  and  the  righteous 
'  spirit  of  my  Master ! ' 

During  this  week,  he  attended  the  session  of  the  Boston 
Association,  held  at  Lynn,  and  which  opened  a  discussion 
on  what  has  been  termed  the  rationalistic  question,  at 
that  time  creating  no  little  agitation.  He  was  a  faith- 
ful attendant  upon  the  discussion,  not  only  at  this  ses- 
sion, but  at  an  adjourned  session,  held  a  month  subse- 
quent, at  Cambridgeport ;  at  the  close  of  which  his  name 
was  recorded  with  the  very  large  majority  of  delegates, 
who  deemed  it  their  duty  to  stand  on  the  supernal  basis 
of  the  Gospels,  and  disclaim  allegiance  with  what  they 
regarded  a  subtile  scepticism. 

'  Diary  November  1th.  —  Lawrence.  Preach  three 
'  times  to-day,  and  am  wanted  again.  Who  knows  but 
'  my  destiny  is  fixed  in  this  new  place  ?  Things  look  fair, 
'  and  friends  sanguine,     ^th.  —  Proceed  to  work,  look- 

*  ing  up  those  who  profess  Universalism.  No  permanent 
'stopping  place.  lO^A.  —  Call  on  number  of  families, 
'  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  —  strangers.  New  thing 
'  to  introduce  myself  to  those  whom  I  never  before  saw 
'  or  knew,  but  go  about  it  with  pleasure.  Wth.  —  Still 
'  looking  them  up,  and  find  them.  All  seem  anxious  to 
'build  up  a  society.  Ibth. — This  evening,  the  friends 
'  organize  a  society ;  a  vote  is  passed  to  retain  me,  if  pos- 
'  sible,  —  prospect  fair.  IQth.  —  Ride  to  Lowell ;  pre- 
'  pare  for  removal  to  Lawrence.     Brother  pleased  with 

*  my  success.     We  are  again  near  each  other,  —  a  long- 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  79 

*  desired  privilege.  19tk.  —  Take  up  quarters  at  Mr. 
*Hanlej's.  Sunday,  2\st.  —  Our  place  of  worship  a 
'large  school-house,  very  hard  for  speaking.  Mostly 
'filled,  during  the  day,  —  evening,  crowded.     Society- 

*  meeting  held,  —  encouraging.  Sunday,  December  btk. 
'  —  House  full,  —  made  three  efforts.  Good  singing,  — 
'  organized  a  Sunday-school.' 

Having  become  settled,  his  society  requested  the  rite 
of  ordination  and  installation ;  and  a  council  of  the  Bos- 
ton Association  was  convened,  for  that  purpose,  on  the 
22nd  of  December.  The  examination  was  satisfactory, 
and  the  services  were  deeply  impressive  to  the  candi- 
date, solemnly  forcing  upon  his  mind  a  realization  of  the 
great  duties  of  his  mission.  In  the  midst  of  a  new 
population  like  that  of  Lawrence,  he  now  found  a  broad 
field  of  parochial  labor.  Many  of  his  spare  hours  were 
spent  in  '  looking  them  up,'  as  he  termed  it.  His  parish- 
book  and  pencil  were  ever  in  hand,  to  take  every  name 
or  address  that  afforded  any  chance  for  enlisting  volun- 
teers for  the  new  Zion.  Shops,  stores,  factories,  streets, 
ofl&ces  and  depots,  were  searched,  with  all  the  vigilance 
of  a  consul  in  some  foreign  port,  searching  for  emigrants 
from  his  native  land.  His  own  figurative  remark,  refer- 
ring to  this  period,  was,  that  he  '  often  used  to  follow 
wagons  as  they  came  in  town,  to  see  if  they  dropped 
anybody  he  could  pick  up ! '  Added  to  parochial  duties, 
he  was  immediately  called  to  assume  arduous  responsibili- 
ties in  the  benevolent  fraternities  of  the  place.  He  could 
here  have  access  to  those  who  might  otherwise  remain 
beyond  his  reach,  and  aid  in  what  he  believed  a  good 
work.     Only  a  few  days  passed  before  he  was  called  to 


80  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

address  the  Odd  Fellows  on  a  funeral  occasion.  And 
a  similar  occasion  called  for  an  address  before  the  Sons 
of  Temperance ;  but,  on  appearing,  after  having  labored 
hard  in  preparation,  he  was  politely  informed  that  ob- 
jections were  made  from  a  certain  quarter,  which  ren- 
dered the  services  of  a  TJniversalist  obnoxious.  Put- 
ting his  address  in  his  pocket  with  the  insult,  he  waited 
patiently  for  redress ;  and  on  the  following  Simday  even- 
ing, the  Sons,  in  defiance  of  bigotry,  gave  him  a  crowded 
hall,  to  hear  the  '  rejected  address.' 

The  year  1848  opened  with  promise.  It  was  a  new 
era  in  his  social  and  affectional  life.  A  ladies'  circle  was 
formed  in  his  society,  and  offered  many  weekly  attrac- 
tions, besides  becoming  an  efiicient  auxiliary  in  spiritual 
interests.  About  this  time  his  attention  was  drawn  to 
Miss  Ellen  M.  Tyler,  eldest  daughter  of  Frederick  and 
Maria  L.  Tyler,  formerly  of  Bangor.  She  was  a  young 
lady,  scarce  eighteen ;  full  and  proportioned  in  height ;  a 
brunette  in  beauty ;  amiable,  lovely,  and  gentle  in  dis- 
position, with  a  sweet  smile  and  modest  bearing ;  frank 
and  confiding  in  her  affections,  though  rather  retiring  in 
her  habits  :  a  teacher  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  choir,  with  a  highly  cultivated  and  natural 
talent  for  vocal  and  instrumental  melody.  Against  all  his 
platonic  professions  and  experiences,  George  was  won  as 
he  had  never  been  before.  That  heart  which  had  so 
often  tasted  the  bitterness  of  griefs  he  had  never  told, 
so  often  laid  bare  and  bleeding  to  the  storms  and  delu- 
sions of  a  world  he  had  fondly  trusted,  so  often  left 
almost  dying  with  despair  over  hopes  gone  out  forever, 
now  became  quickened  into  new  life,  and  sought  new 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  81 

hopes  in  the  love  of  one  he  could  trust  as  the  ideal  of 
his  early  dreams. 

But  with  joys  came  new  sorrows.  Two  lovely  little 
boys,  the  only  children  of  Mr.  William  Goodwin,  of  his 
society,  are  drowned,  and  the  whole  town  is  agitated 
with  sympathy.  Three  days  and  nights  passed  in  sus- 
pense, during  most  of  which  time,  in  the  bitter  cold  of 
winter,  men  were  engaged  dragging  the  Spicket  in  search 
of  the  bodies.  George's  sympathy  with  the  bereaved 
parents  rose  to  agony,  and  rendered  him  almost  power- 
less in  administering  consolations ;  and  when  the  bodies 
were  found,  and  the  immense  crowd  assembled  at  the 
funeral  obsequies,  his  soul  seemed  to  pour  itself  all  out 
in  child-like  bursts  of  eloquent  grief;  and  when  all  was 
over,  he  retired  to  his  room  like  a  faint  and  weary  child, 
drooping  with  sorrow.  Added  to  this  sorrow,  he  now 
received  news  of  the  mortal  illness  of  his  friend  Charles 
Bouton,  at  Canandaigua.  He  was  fast  declining  with 
the  consumption ;  and  it  was  impossible  for  George  to 
remain  happy  and  contented  five  hundred  miles  away, 
while  he  thought  of  the  poor  invalid  brother  pining  and 
dying  among  strangers,  or  those  who  had  never  known 
the  struggles  of  the   past.     '  Poor  Bouton  comes  up 

*  before  me,  pale,  sickly,  dying !     0,  God  !  spare  me  this 

*  blow  to  so  many  of  my  hopes  !     But  thy  will  be  done, 
'  though  it  is  hard  to  lose  him.     If  he  must  die,  I  should 

*  stand  by  his  side,  and  close  his  eyes ! ' 

Though  his  professional  labors  are  crowned  with  suc- 
cess, he  is  not  without  drawbacks.  Their  place  of 
meeting  is  small,  and  frequently  unable  to  hold  the 
audience.     A  new  place  is  selected,  but  little  larger  or 


82  LIIE-SKETCHES   OF 

better ;  and  the  society,  though,  strong  in  numbers,  is  too 
feeble  in  means  to  build,  or  to  meet  all  its  fiscal  respons- 
ibilities with  the  promptitude  of  older  and  permanent 
societies.  George  suffered  severely  from  this,  even  to 
the  close  of  his  labors ;  though  he  seldom  complained, 
except  in  a  dignified  manner,  and  then  made  an  earnest 
appeal,  which  always  drew  a  noble  response  from  his 
friends.  On  several  occasions,  he  was  nearly  destitute ; 
but  large  donations,  or  just  dues,  readily  came  to  his 
relief,  to  strengthen  his  faith  in  the  people  of  his  choice. 
His  destiny  was  now  with  Miss  Tyler.  Repudiating 
all  sickly  sentimentalization,  he  is,  however,  compelled  to 
own  the  soft  impeachment  of  a  love  that  is  reciprocated 
as  freely  as  it  is  given.  Henceforth,  life  has  new  color- 
ings and  new  aims.  Taking  rooms  at  the  residence  of  his 
intended  parents-in-law,  he  makes  an  ominous  minute  in 
his  diary,  the  prophecy  of  which  time  alone  must 
elucidate : 

'March  20fh,  1848.—  I  feel  myself  housed  for  life, 
'  —  for  a  single  life,  at  least.  How  this  may  be,  I  cannot 
'  tell.  Strange  things  may  happen.  Once  in  a  while,  a 
'  dark  presentiment  comes  over  me.  It  may  be  all  fancy, 
'  and  no  foreshadowing  of  coming  events.  God  forefend ! ' 

These  days  pass  among  the  happiest,  however  far  off 
or  near  the  foreshadowing  cloud  seems  to  hang.  One 
cloud  proves  near  at  hand.  It  is  some  time  since  he 
has  heard  from  Bouton  ;  yet  he  writes  in  his  diary : 

*  April  4,1/1.  —  My  Bouton  is  dying ;  I  feel  it,  —  I 
*  know  it ;  and  must  it  be  so  ?  From  the  far-off  west 
'  comes  a  spirit-voice,  and  speaks,  It  is  so.  0  God !  and 
'  must  he  die  ?     My  poor,  poor  sick  friend  I     11th.  — 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  OD 

«  What  tidings  will  come  next  from  my  poor  Charles  ? 

*  I  dread  it,  fear  it,  expect  it,  —  doleful,  of  dying 
*and  death!  Of  going  away,  —  away  on  cars,  on 
'wings,   on  a  bier!     God!    0   God,  this    suspense! 

*  12th.  —  My  watch  goes  on  as  kind  and  faithful  as 
*ever;    no    change,    no   failing,    no   stopping,  —  tick, 

<  tick, — hours,  days,  months,  years;  and  the  sun  goes 

*  on.     0,  that  men  were  as  faithful  to  each  other  and 

<  their  God!  IStk. —Yes,  0  yes, — here  it  is:  — 
* "  If  you  wish  to  see  Charles  alive,  come,  and  come 

*  quick !  "  writes  my  old  friend  Finley,  and  he  knows. 

*  I  must  go  !  —  and  yet  how  can  I,  poor  as  I  am  ?    It  is 

*  a  long  way ;  many,  many  weary  miles.     But  I  must 

*  go ;  yet  can't  till  after  Sunday.     Then  it  may  be  too 

*  late.     0,  the  thought  is  agony !     I  will  trust  God. 

*  XUh.  —  "  Come   quick  !  "  &c.,  writes   friend  Bates  ; 

<  —  but  I  must  wait.  l^th.  —  Feel  I  am  doing 
'  wrong  to  delay.  Shall  never  see  my  poor  Charles 
'  again, —  so  something  tells  me ;  but  must  wait  till  Mon- 

<  day,—  then  I  '11  fly.  l^th.—KW  day  and  all  night  feel 

<  that  I  should  be  going.    Vltk.  —  Now  I  go,  by  way  of 

<  Lowell.     Brother  U.  thinks  better  hurry.     I  go,  I 

*  go  !  but  still  I  am  too  late,  —  I  feel  it,  dream  it,  fear 

*  it,  dread  it !     Leave  Boston,  four,  p.  m.,  and  on,  on ! 

*  Stopped  by  a  freight-train,  —  run  afoul  of  a  rock,  and 

*  stacked.     Stay  over  night  at  Springfield.     l%th.  — 

*  Eight,  A.  M.     On,  on,  on,  —  past  rocks,  hills,  dales, 

<  mountains,  —  over  bridges,  and  under  !     On,  on  we 

*  fly !     At  Albany,  —  O,  delay !     In  the  cars,  and  on, 

*  on,  through  a  dark,  stormy  night,  the  cars  rattling, 

*  the  wind  howling,  the  lightning  flashing,  the  thunder 


84  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

'  rolling  ;  but  away,  away,  we  go  !  Sleep  ? — Yes,  sit- 
'  ting ;  but  to  dream,  —  dream  of  home !     Where  is  my 

*  home  ?  —  Where  Ellen  is !  To  dream  of  Charles,  — 
'  and  where  is  he  ?  —  Dying?  or  in  heaven  !     0,  that 

*  I  knew  !  To  di-eam  of  rattling,  confusion,  stopping, 
'  going  on,  on,  —  and  I  awake  ;  but  still  going  on,  on, 
'  on  !  19th.  —  Breakfast  and  go  on,  —  on,  nearing  my 
'  old  western  home.  On,  past  scenes  familiar,  —  on 
'  towards  Canandaigua,  now  in  sight ;  over  whose  hills 
'  I  have  oft  rambled  with  Charles.  —  Charles  !  a  world 

*  of  emotion  rushes  on  me,  —  on !     0,  the  moments  of 

*  agony  and  suspense !  'T  is  half-past  two,  p.  m,  —  we 
'  stop,  —  I  leap  from  the  cars.  Brothers  Almon  Gage 
'and  Franklin  are  waiting  for  me.     I  am  expected. 

*  Does  he  live  ?  No !  no  !  O,  God!  —  dead,  dead  ?  It 
'  cannot  be  !     Will  he  speak  no  more  ?     Will  he  not 

*  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say,  "  George,  you  have  come 
'  a  long  way  to  see  me ;  I  thank  you,  —  I  am  glad  to 
'  see  you"?  0,  no  I  he  is  dead.  My  friend,  my  com- 
'  panion,  my  brother,  is  gone,  gone  forever  !     Yes  !  — 

*  there  he  lies,  cold,  silent !  'T  is  Charles  !  0,  if  he 
'  would  only  speak,  and  say  one  word !  How  poor, 
'  pale,  —  and  yet  't  is  Charles !  No  ;  't  is  the  poor  body. 
'  Charles  is  away,  away  with  his  God,  —  the  God  he 
'  loved,  trusted,  adored !  And  I  am  alone,  —  all  alone  ! 
'  The  people  gather  around  me,  —  they  were  gathered  for 
'  burial  when  I  came,  —  Odd  Fellows  and  Sons.  Tears 
'  are  shed.  Here  are  his  old  scholars,  and  mine  ;  and 
'  they  come  to  look  upon  their  old  teacher.  0,  what  a 
'  scene  !   I  follow  to  the  grave.   'T  is  a  narrow  place  for 

*  the  body  that  once  held  so  great  a  soul  as  my  friend 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  85 

*  Charles',  and  cold  and  dreary  !    But  they  put  it  down, 

*  and  the  evergreens  fall  on  his  cofl&n.     We  turn  away, 

*  —  the  scene  is  over.     0,  that  I  should  be  called  to 

*  behold  it !     But  so  it  is.     I  cannot  realize  he  is  gone. 

*  He  died  almost  the  hour  I  left  LaivrenceJ 

And  here,  for  the  solution  of  spiritual  philosophers,  it 
may  be  added,  before  he  left  Lowell,  he  gave  his  brother 
solemn  assurance  of  his  conviction  that  he  should  arrive  in 
Canandaigua  too  late,  and  that  he  should  find  the  company 
waiting  for  him  to  join  in  the  last  sad  office ;  events  prov- 
ing too  literal  for  mere  coincidences.  And  now  he  dis- 
charges the  mournful  duty  of  collecting  Charles'  effects, 
and  settling  his  affairs.  Mr.  Bouton  left  many  papers  of 
a  valuable  and  suggestive  character,  together  with  a  life 
of  many  painful  lessons.  A  brief  memoir  of  him  appeared 
in  the  Christian  Freeman  at  the  time  of  his  exit ;  but  it 
gave  only  a  glance  at  that  brief  career  of  his,  which  is 
seldom  paralleled  even  in  romance.  He  seemed  but  half 
born  for  this  world,  so  abortive  were  his  deeds,  compared 
with  his  noble  aims.  Feeble  in  form  and  health,  timid 
and  shrinking  in  all  his  intercourses,  yet  strong  and 
grasping  in  intellect, —  keenly  delicate  and  intense  in  all 
his  emotions  and  aspirations, — he  was  like  a  helpless  bird, 
fluttering  between  heaven  and  earth,  with  no  place  to 
rest  amid  the  contending  elements.  For  a  long  time 
previous  to  his  death,  he  held  correspondence  with  an 
amiable  and  gifted  young  lady ;  but  seldom,  if  ever,  dared 
to  think  of  more  than  a  friendly  intellectual  relation, 
while  bowed  to  the  dust  with  an  agonizing  consciousness 
of  his  unfitness  for  conjugal  responsibility.  Among  his 
papers  were  numerous  scraps,  discourses,  essays,  maxims, 
8 


86  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

and  patches  of  poetry,  most  of  which  were  left  unfin- 
ished, like  his  temporal  life.  He  had  no  strength  to 
execute  a  thousand  things  he  projected.  His  purposes 
were  continually  broken  ofif  by  unconquerable  weakness. 
He  was  truly  great  in  soul,  —  greater  than  many  who 
have  risen  high  in  popular  esteem ;  but  small  in  mate- 
rial achievement.  The  annals  of  obscure  and  humble 
worth  have  seldom  perpetuated  the  memory  of  one  more 
noble  in  mind  and  heart ;  yet  he  went  to  his  long  home 
unhonored,  and  unknown  to  all  the  world,  save  George. 
And  he  went  so  calmly,  so  hopefully,  so  full  of  faith  in 
another  life,  and  with  such  a  child-like  trust,  that  he 
knew  no  pang.  He  laid  himself  down  in  the  morning, 
to  take  a  short  sleep,  after  cheerful  converse,  and  awoke 
no  more.  And  thus  closed  a  life  of  broken  purposes 
and  unfulfilled  hopes,  so  efequent  with  prophecy  of  a 
celestial  life,  whose  hopes  and  purposes  shall  ripen  into 
everlasting  fruition. 

Having  discharged  his  last  duty  to  Charles,  George 
wandered  through  Canandaigua,  at  every  step  mourning 
the  absence  of  him  whose  presence  in  years  gone  had 
hallowed  every  scene.  After  visiting  friends,  and 
preaching  on  Sunday  in  the  Baptist  chuix-h,  at  the  invi- 
tation of  the  liberal  pastor,  Mr.  Whitney,  —  since  a  lib- 
eral preacher,  —  he  returned  to  Lawrence,  by  way  of 
New  York,  where  he  found  the  only  brother  and  sister 
of  Charles,  and  to  whom  he  communicated  the  last  sad 
news. 

Time  hurries  us  along,  with  little  to  elicit  interest. 
In  May  George  suffers  some  from  difficulty  of  the  lungs  ; 
but  the  water-cure  affords  speedy  relief. 


GEORGE   HExNRY    CLARK.  87 

Exchanging  with  Rev.  Mr.  Stevens,  of  Exeter,  on  his 
return  home,  he  visits  Boston,  enjoys  the  services  at  the 
installation  of  Rev.  A.  A.  Miner  as  pastor  of  School- 
street  church,  and  a  session  of  the  New  England  Univer- 
salist  Reform  Association ;  the  annual  report  of  which, 
by  Rev.  H.  Bacon,  he  calls  a  *  great  production,  pungent, 
instructive  and  pathetic'  He  went  home  *  stronger, 
and  encouraged  to  labor  on.' 

As  the  day  of  his  marriage  approaches,  he  indulges  in 
various  reflections  appropriate  to  the  event.  He  goes 
back  to  childhood,  youth,  and  recalls  early  hopes  long 
deferred;  dreams  unfulfilled,  prospects  blasted,  ambi- 
tious aims  defeated ;  but  all  these  are  more  than  com- 
pensated in  the  realization  of  the  present,  —  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  companion  to  share  in  all  his  joys  and  sor- 
rows, and  light  the  world  with  new  hopes.  On  Sunday 
afternoon,  June  4th,  1848,  at  the  close  of  service  with 
his  own  people  in  Lawrence,  he  rose,  with  his  bride, 
and,  with  a  firm  purpose,  took  that  solemn  marriage-vow 
which  he  ever  held  most  sacred  in  every  thought  and 
deed.    *  The  ceremony  was  short,'  he  writes,  '  but  good  ; 

*  the  prayer  went  to  every  heart,  and  the  benediction 

*  swept  over  my  soul  like  the  sweet  breath  of  angel-love.' 
It  was  a  bright,  auspicious  day ;  and,  as  the  happy  pair 
rode  to  Lowell,  the  sun  shone  never  more  lovely,  nor 
over  a  more  lovely  landscape,  along  the  banks  of  the 
Merrimack.  From  Lowell  they  pass  to  Taunton,  during 
the  week,  and  attend  the  Massachusetts  State  Conven- 
tion. One  sermon  alone  is  heard,  and  that  from  Rev. 
O.  A.  Skinner.  The  discussions  of  the  council  inter- 
ested him  but  little,  and  he  passed  some  strictures.     In 


88  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

these  ecclesiastical  bodies  neither  his  age  nor  ability 
ever  allowed  him  to  take  part ;  but,  had  he  taken  part, 
it  would  have  been  in  the  spirit  of  a  John  Randolph. 
He  lacked  patience  to  sit  long  in  deliberative  councils,  or 
to  listen  to  long  speeches  aimed  at  points  to  which  he 
fancied  he  could  leap  at  once.  Whenever  he  took 
part  in  business  meetings  at  home,  whether  in  his 
society  or  with  other  associations  in  which  he  was 
engaged,  he  usually  had  a  brief,  fi-ank  way  of  being 
humorous,  sarcastic  and  biting,  —  sometimes  giving  unde- 
signed offence,  sometimes  clenching  the  point  without 
discussion,  and  at  others  bringing  down  the  house  with 
a  roar ;  while  his  own  long,  lean,  Roman-nosed  visage 
remained  fixed  w'ith  imperturbable  gravity,  as  though 
he  never  dreamed  of  ludicrous  perpetrations. 

^  Diary,  Sunday,  June  Wth.  —  "Well,  here  we  are 
'  again  ;  I  in  my  little  desk,  and  Ella  in  the  choir.  My 
*  voice  is  strong  ;  feel  well,  —  meetings  full,  —  all  seem 
'  pleased  and  prosperous.  Call  on  our  long  sick  sister 
'  Hanly,  my  former  landlady.  Thinks  she  shall  die ; 
'  but  talked  cheerfully,  and  said,  "  Brother  C,  I  want 
'  you  to  begin  that  funeral  sermon  of  mine,  and  you 
'  must  put  in  some  of  your  best  thoughts."  I  bade  her 
'  not  talk  so ;  but  she  insisted.  Well,  well ;  it  may  be 
'  I  shall  be  called  on  to  fulfil  her  wishes.' 

He  was ;  and  the  sermon  was  so  well  received  that  the 
ladies  of  his  society  drew  the  MS.  from  him,  and  pub- 
lished it  in  pamphlet  form,  much  against  his  better 
judgment.  It  was  the  only  sermon  he  ever  allowed 
published. 

Here  he  records  a  terrible  season  of  summer  com- 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  89 

plaint,  which  keeps  him  some  time  '  on  his  back,' 
indulging  in  interjections  that  sound  very  unlike  a 
sick  man.  But  the  Fourth  of  July  brings  him  on 
his  feet,  and  out  to  marshal  his  Cadets  of  Temperance 
for  the  celebration.  He  joins  the  citizens,  and  at  the 
table  is  called  out ;  at  which  he  launches  forth  against 
slavery,  indifferent  in  regard  to  the  manner  in  which  his 
speech  is  received  by  those  who  dodge  that  great  evil 
while  dealing  in  Fourth  of  July  gasconade.  About  this 
time  he  comes  In  contact  with  a  sectarian  spirit  in  one 
of  the  fraternities  of  his  choice,  and  which  involved  men 
occupying  high  positions.  It  called  out  George,  and 
compelled  him  to  administer  blistering  rebukes,  and 
rebukes  before  which  the  offenders  fairly  squirmed, 
though  he  was  warmly  sustained  in  his  course. 

During  July  he  is  sent  for  to  preach  as  candidate  for 
one  of  the  smaller  churches  in  Boston.  He  thinks, 
however,  it  will  be  very  difficult  to  get  him  from 
Lawrence  ;  and  returns  home  better  satisfied  to  remain 
where  he  Is,  whether  he  has  an  invitation  from  Boston 
or  otherwise.  He  is  now  cheered  with  a  visit  from  his 
brother  Hosea,  of  New  York,  whom  he  calls  a  'noble 
brother,  of  whom  he  feels  proud.'  Then  Ella  is  unwell, 
and  he  has  some  anxiety,  though  no  alarm.  Now  he 
spends  an  afternoon  rambling  with  his  Sunday-school  In 
the  woods,  and  takes  juvenile  delight.  Then  the  weather 
is  so  hot  he  feels  himself '  melting  by  inches.'  Now  he 
speaks  of  his  kindly  brother,  Be  v.  0.  H.  Tillotson, 
his  nearest  neighbor,  at  Methuen.  Then  he  attends 
Grand  Lodge  at  Boston.  Now  he  anticipates  a  visit, 
with  the  whole  family,  at  his  old  home,  In  Cross  Blver ; 
8* 


so  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

and  of  his  elder  brother's  journey  west.     He  is  happy 
with  Ella. 

*  Aug.  11  tk.  —  Time  rolls  on ;  my  labors  still  come. 

*  Railroads  are  in  full  speed ;  men  work,  dig,  and  suffer ; 

*  people  continue  to  die,  and  the  grave-yard  is  filling.' 

He  forms  a  Bible-class ;  begins  to  prepare  sermons 
with  more  care ;  has  had  no  dejection  since  marriage. 
A  hearer  comes  up  to  him,  at  the  close  of  service,  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  shakes  hands,  and  drops  a  dollar  in 
his  palm.  He  is  rich  in  emotions.  Now  sad  news 
comes  from  his  elder  brother,  that  '  dear  little  Paul  has 
gone  with  the  angels.'  George  sermonizes,  but  his 
thoughts  are  tinged  with  sympathy  for  those  who  mourn 
the  departed  angel-boy.  The  long-anticipated  family 
visit  at  the  old  home  is  deferred ;  alas  !  deferred  till  the 
great  family  gathering  in  the  Father's  house  of  many 
mansions.  Now  the  memory  of  poor  Bouton  comes 
afresh  : 

'  I  cannot  learn  to  forget  him,  nor  would  I.  His 
'  memory  is  sweet  to  my  soul.     0,  that  his  spirit  would 

*  greet  me  from  the  spirit-land  !     But  I  shall  see  him 

*  only  as  I  go  hence  from  this  body.     Yet,  0  Charles ! 

*  did  you  not  promise  to  come  down  to  earth,  and  tell 
'  me  of  eternity  ?  —  tell  me  what  it  is  to  die,  —  to  be 

*  dead  ;  0  God  !  to  sleep,  —  to  go,  we  know  not  where ! 
'  Yes,  yes,  go  back  to  God,  —  Amen.' 

During  the  autumn,  he  entertained  serious  thoughts 
of  another  location,  his  circumstances  were  so  embarrass- 
ing in  Lawrence.  He  took  much  encouragement  in 
regard  to  receiving  some  favorable  invitation.  Animat- 
ing words  were   often  heard   from   those    whom    he 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  91 

believed  incapable  of  flattering.  While  supplying  a 
Sunday  for  his  brother  in  Lowell,  he  was  introduced  to 
Mrs.  L.  J.  B.  Case,  who  gave  him  a  delicate  compli- 
ment he  remembered  with  hope  and  gratitude.  Blessed 
is  the  remembrance  of  such  words  dropped  on  the  ear  of 
those  who  are  trembling  at  the  mercy  of  popular  ele- 
ments !  But  Providence  seems  against  his  leaving 
Lawrence,  and  he  is  content.  An  extra  efibrt  is  made 
by  the  zealous  flock,  and  all  embarrassment  is  removed. 
At  the  opening  of  1849,  a  large  new  hall  is  opened  for 
worship,  but  George  is  unable  to  dedicate  it.  He  is 
alarmed  with  signs  of  pulmonary  disease,  but  which 
proved,  in  the  end,  to  be  nothing  serious.  Yet  he  was 
pained  on  not  being  able  to  take  his  place  at  such  an 
interesting  period,  and  engaged  Rev.  G.  Hastings  to 
supply.  During  most  of  the  winter  he  sufiered  some 
alarm,  and  labored  under  a  difficulty  of  the  throat  and 
lungs ;  and,  in  addition,  his  eye  met  with  an  acci- 
dent, which  for  a  while  compelled  him  to  desist  from  all 
study  and  writing,  so  that  Saturday,  February  19th,  the 
first  time  during  his  ministry,  found  him  without  pre- 
paration for  Sunday. 


92  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 


CHAPTER  X. 

PREMONITORY. SHADOWS. THE   MOURNER's   WAIL. 

The  harsh,  hoarse  winds  of  March,  1849,  whistle 
mournfully,  indeed,  to  the  young  husband,  whose  ears 
are  now  daily  pained  with  an  ominous  cough  from  Ella. 
^  He  calls  it  '  an  ugly  cough,'  and  '  does  not  like  to  hear 
it.'  A  cold  has  settled  on  her  lungs,  but  bright  hopes 
are  entertained  of  spring  and  summer.  Yet  the  warm 
days,  with  soft  airs,  birds  and  flowers,  seem  forever 
coming  to  George,  as  he  hears  that  cough,  and  sees  a 
sweet  face  paling  and  fading.  May-day  arrives,  yet 
with  no  warm  sunshine,  nor  bland  airs.  Ella  is  no 
better.  He  asks,  '  Where,  where  will  it  end  ?  She 
looks  pale  and  emaciated.     My  soul ! ' 

Now  the  Merrimack  River  Ministerial  Circle  meets 
with  him.  It  is  in  its  palmiest  day.  Alas!  what 
changes  has  time  wrought  in  that  band  of  brothers ! 
A  reengagement  is  made  with  his  society.  He  receives 
a  happy  visit  from  his  friend,  Rev.  E.  Case,  Jr., 
who  locates  in  Marblehead.  He  is  now  often  called  to 
the  sick  bed,  but  feels  his  weakness,  —  feels  it  almost 
impossible  to  offer  a  word  of  comfort,  he  is  so  easily 
moved  to  tears  of  sympathy.  Cold  east  winds  prevail 
for  several  weeks,  and  every  blast  goes  to  his  heart,  as 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  yd 

he  thinks  of  Ella.  Now  he  is  made  happy  with  a  visit 
from  his  venerated  father  and  step-mother.     But  '  Ella, 

*  Ella  is  sick.  What  shall  I  do  for  her  ?  She  coughs, 
'  coughs ! '  Death  is  at  work  in  his  society  among 
children,  and  he  preaches  a  sermon  of  general  adapta- 
tion. Life  grows  more  solemn,  and  thickens  with  ear- 
nest  realities.     Ella  is  no  better;  but  he  exclaims, 

*  Hope,  hope,  thou  anchor  of  the  soul ! '  He  stands 
trembling  at  the  bed-side  of  a  dying  young  man,  and 
almost  sinks  with  deep  convictions  of  his  solemn  duty 
in  such  a  place.  He  '  feels  in  the  presence  of  God,  and 
'as  though  the  departing  spirit  would  soon  carry  to 

*  Heaven  the  story  of  his  feeble  stewardship.'  Now  he 
is  blessed  with  a  Sunday's  aid  and  visit  from  his  com- 
panion, Rev.  Geo.  Hill,  then  a  fellow-student  with 
George's  elder  brother,  at  Lowell.  The  anniversary  of 
his  marriage  comes ;  and  what  memories,  what  contrasts, 
as  he  sees  before  him  the  beloved  Ella,  one  year  since 
fresh  in  bridal  bloom,  but  now  fading,  fading,  yet  still 
sweet,  serene,  smiling,  unmurmuring!  The  happiness 
of  that  brief  year  seemed  too  dear  to  last. 

In  June,  the  State  Convention  meets  at  Sdlem. 
George  hears  the  venerable  Rev.  Hosea  Ballon  the  first 
time,  and  feels  impressed  with  the  honor  of  being 
invited  by  the  patriarch  to  assist  in  the  opening  services. 
He  enjoys  a  good  meeting,  and  goes  home  refreshed. 
But  Ella  is  worse  for  the  journey,  having  taken  new 
cold.  He  preaches  two  series  of  discourses  ;  one  on  the 
attributes,  and  another  on  the  history  of  endless  retri- 
bution. His  parish  increases,  and  duties  are  enlarged. 
Nearly  half  of  his  audiences  are  strangers,  many  of 


94  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

whom  are  transient,  hearing  but  a  few  times,  and  then 
going  out  of  the  place  to  carry  the  germs  of  liberal 
truth.  In  mid-summer,  a  journey  with  Ella  is  projected 
to  New  Hampshire.  George  returns  alone,  and  is  lone- 
some indeed.  But  he  could  better  bear  to  have  her 
away,  did  he  know  she  was  not  weak  and  pining.  He 
rebukes  himself  for  the  love-sickness  he  feels,  yet  can- 
not cure  it  till  he  starts  after  her.  He  meets  her. 
'  No  better,  no  better,'  is  the  half-despairing  exclama- 
tion of  his  diary.  She  is  now  almost  too  feeble  either 
to  sing  or  play,  and  all  seems  like  a  summer  world,  with 
no  song  from  warbling  minstrels.  He  struggles  to  pre- 
pare for  the  worst,  but  still  hopes  for  the  best.  The 
name  of  death  is  never  mentioned  between  him  and  her 
who  he  fears  may  soon  fall  before  its  shaft ;  but  long, 
solemn  silences  have  a  mournful  language  each  can  in- 
terpret, as  they  sit  side  by  side,  in  melancholy  musing, 
exchanging  smiles  and  glances  that  penetrate  each  heart 
with  sad  forebodings.  Sometimes  he  sits  alone,  hour 
after  hour,  lost  in  reverie ;  and  then  starts  as  from  a 
dream,  but  a  dream,  he  fears,  too  prophetic  of  coming 
reality.  If  he  ever  breathes  a  complaining  prayer,  he 
prays,  '  0  God,  forgive  my  murmuring  soul !  —  hush, 
George ! ' 

Autumn  brings  no  brighter  change.  He  exchanges 
with  Rev.  J.  W.  Putnam,  of  Danvers;  enjoys  a  happy 
season  with  Dr.  Robinson  and  others,  in  Salem ;  but 
Ella  is  not  there,  and  something  is  lacking.  His  Sun- 
day-school has  an  excursion  to  Hackett's  Lake,  —  a  joy- 
ous season  ;  but  Ella  is  not  there.  Winter  is  dreaded, 
as  dark  and  dreary.     *  0,  my  soul,  trust  in  God,  thy 


GEORGE  HENRY   CLARK.  95 

*  strength  and  shield  !  God,  God,  God  !  —  to  see  her 
'  suffering,  day  after  day,  so  patient,  so  hopefiil,  —  and 

*  yet  she  says,  "  We  are  happy,  and  will  be,  if  I  am 

*  sick."  ' 

Now  another  crisis  comes  in  his  society.  But  a  strong 
appeal  is  made ;  the  faithful  band  respond  nobly,  and 
the  crisis  is  past.  Dr.  Jacobs,  Ella's  physician,  from 
Bangor,  visits  her,  and  some  encouragement  is  felt. 
George  preaches  a  brief  series  of  discourses  on  the 
reunion  of  friends  in  heaven,  in  which  he  becomes  in- 
tensely interested.  His  labors  and  anxieties  now  have 
a  material  effect  upon  his  health ;  but  he  cannot  rest. 
In  November,  he  attends  the  Boston  Association,  at 
Beverly,  and  is  invited  to  offer  the  first  discourse,  an 
honor  he  little  expected.  Now  he  is  requested  to  preach 
two  Sundays,  as  a  candidate,  for  the  Fifth  Society,  in 
New  York.  He  hesitates.  Ella  is  failing  fast,  and  he 
fears  leaving  her.  But  she  urges  him  to  think  nothing 
of  her,  and  go.  He  consents,  reluctantly.  He  takes 
the  mournful  adieu,  and  starts ;  but,  on  turning  back  a 
moment,  and  seeing  Ella  in  tears,  he  almost  resolves  to 
stay.  But  duty  calls,  and  he  is  away.  He  goes  not 
alone,     '  Anxiety  is  his  constant  companion,'  he  says. 

*  It  rides  by  him,  —  it  sits  down  by  his  side  at  table,  — 
'  it  crowds  into  his  berth,  —  it  bears  him  company  in 
'the  great  city,  ever  whispering  of  home  and  poor 
'Ella.' 

He  preaches  two  Sundays  for  the  Fifth  Society;  sup- 
plies half  a  day  for  Eev.  C.  H.  Fay,  of  Orchard-street 
Church;  visits  his  old  home  in  Cross  River;  spends 
dreary  days,  and  dark  nights  of  anxiety,  made   more 


96  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

desolate  by  tlie  winds  of  winter ;  and  on  the  morning 
of  December  4th,  finds  bimself  back  to  Lawrence. 
But,  alas,  what  a  change  in  Ella  !  He  is  smitten  with 
grief  at  having  left  her  so  long.  She  has  grown  more 
wan,  more  pale,  more  feeble,  and  can  raise  her  voice 
scarce  above  a  whisper.  Yet  she  is  still  alive,  he  thanks 
God,  —  still  walks,  smiles,  is  serene  and  radiant  with 
hope.  He  will  never  leave  her  again.  And  now  he 
can  do  little  or  nothing,  but  sit  down  and  think,  and 
look  at  that  pale,  sweet  face,  faster  and  faster  fading 
before  his  anxious  gaze,  and  listen  to  that  low,  melodious 
voice,  which  sounds  more  and  more  like  the  mild  whis- 
per of  angels.  Late  at  night,  he  watches  at  her  couch, 
and  then  retires  to  his  now  lonely  room,  but  retires  only 
to  dream  amid  slumbers  disturbed  by  visions  of  the  wan 
sufierer.     But  hope  yet  lingers. 

About  this  period,  the  new  magnificent  town  hall 
is  opened,  and  dedicated  by  the  citizens  of  Lawrence. 
All  the  clergy  are  invited,  except  George.  As  he  enters 
the  hall,  the  inviting  ofiicial  meets  him,  and  apologizes 
for  forgetting  him  !  The  fact  is  soon  whispered  through 
the  audience ;  and,  glorying  in  the  insult,  in  the  end  he 
makes  it  tell  in  behalf  of  liberal  sentiments.  He  had 
grown  accustomed  to  such  indignities,  and  always  re- 
ceived them  in  a  manner  best  designed  to  rebuke  the 
offenders,  and  show  a  dignified  assertion  of  his  rights. 
But  other  events  are  now  more  absorbing. 

^  Diary,  December  Vdth,  1849.  — The  record  of  each 

*  day  in  my  life  is  now  all  told  in  a  few  words  :  brood- 

*  ing  in  anxiety  in  my  study,  and  over  the  sick  couch 

*  of  my  fading  wife.     She  still  sits  up  some  part  of  each 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  97 

*day,  but  less  and  less  every  day.     2^th.  —  Go  no- 

*  where,  —  write  nothing,  —  read  nothing,  —  but  think 

*  and  dream,  and  0,  what  dreams  !  ^Ist.  —  No  winter 
*'ever  seemed  so  dreary  and  desolate.  Every  howl  of 
'  the  wind  seems  like  a  blast  of  desolation.     And  yet, 

*  there  is  a  God,  —  my  Father,  our  Father,  —  and 
'all  may  be  well,  all  shall  be  well,  in  his  hands. 
^22nd,  —  0,  my  poor  Ella!  —  how  she  suffers!  I 
'  can  give  her  but  little  m.edicine,  —  it  seems  to  do  her 

*  no  good.  She  sits  up  some  to-day,  and  is  cheerful  as 
'  usual.  Yet  I  feel  there  is  a  change  in  the  tone  of  her 
'  mind.     Does  she  feel  she  is  going  to  die  ?     Does  she 

*  feel  she  must  leave  all  she  loves,  and  who  love  her  ? 

*  She  wishes  to  say  but  little  about  it.     I  cannot  talk 

*  with  her  on  a  theme  upon  which  I  am  unable  to  think 

*  without  bursting  with  grief.     0,  no,  no  !  —  not  yet ! 

*  Her  physician  still  gives  encouragement.  Yet,  God's 
'will  be  done.      Sunday,  23d.  —  A  fine  winter  Sab- 

*  bath.  I  have  no  evening  service,  on  account  of  Ella. 
'  A  crisis  has  come.     We  watch  and  wait,  most  of  the 

*  time,  —  do  not  leave  her  a  moment.  Is  she  failing  ? 
'  Her  breath  comes  more  difficult.     I  sit  up  with  her 

*  late,  and  then  seek  rest,  but  find  little.     24:th.  —  "  0, 

*  I  wish  my  chest  was  longer,"  says  Ella,  "  so  that  I 
'could  breathe  easier."  Her  father  told  her  to-day  he 
'  thought  she  could  not  stay  a  week.  She  said  but  lit- 
'  tie.     She  fails,  and  is  near  her  end.     Yet  she  wishes 

*  nothing  said  to  those  who  love  her,  lest  their  hearts 

*  bleed  for  her.  "  Don't  tell  George,"  she  says,  —  sweet 
'  angel !  as  though  I  could   not   bear   to  know.     Her 

*  mother  and  myself  are  with  her  all  day,  and  most  all 

9 


98  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

*  night.  She  sits  up  some.  She  called  us  to  her  bed-side, 
'  and  wanted  a  kiss.     "  0,  my  poor,  dear  husband ! "  she 

*  said.     I  felt  it  might  be  the  last  time.     I  sit  up  and 

*  write  to  friends,  hoping  still,  —  hope  till  all  is  gone, 
"  How  often  baTe  I  hoped  thus,  till  the  last  ray  ha» 

*  faded,  and  the  clouds  have  come  over  me !     The  cloud 

*  is  hovering  over  me  now^  and  nearly  all  is  dark.     It 

*  may  be  darker  to-morrow. 

'  Christmas,  December  25?A,  1849.  —  "  0  my  God  I 

*  my  God  I  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ?  "     Ella,  my 

*  own  dear  Ella  I  the  idol  of  my  soul,  the  hope  of  my 

*  lifcy  the  day-star  of  my  being,  the  enshrined,  the  only 

*  loved  and  only  loving,  the  darling  God-given  bride  of 
'  my  hearty  the  sharer  of  my  joys  and  sorrows  and  toils  I 
'  —  is  dead,  dead  \  0,  my  God !  my  God  I  she  has  gone, 
'  gone  forever !     Lord,  forgive  rny  rebellious  heart !  — 

*  forgive,  if  I  murmur  at  thy  decrees,  if  I  refuse  the  bit- 
'  ter  cup !     Crushed,  broken,  bleeding  heart,  be  still  I 

*  Groan  and  throb  in  thine  anguish  !     Dead,  dead,  Ellen 

*  dead,  dead !  Why  does  the  sun  shine  ?  —  why  does 
'  nature  go  on  ?  —  why  ?   0  !  0  !  0  !     I  am  alone,  alone, 

*  alone!  Let  me  out  with  my  gi'iefl  Too  bad,  too 
'  bad  !  Our  love  was  enough  to  make  death  unwelcome  I 
'  But  on  earth  it  is  all  over.     It  may  live  in  Heaven, 

*  and  become  immortal !  It  will,  it  is, — only  I  am  here, 
'  she  there.     0,  we  loved  too  well !     God !  God  !  why 

*  hast  thou  afficted  us  ?   0,  why  ?   Come,  faith,  and  teach 

*  me  why  !     She  died  to-day,  —  I  saw  her  die !     I  stood 

*  by,  —  I  held  her  hand,  and  felt  her  last  pulse.  I  wiped 
*the  death-foam  from  her  lips.     Her  large,  dark,  full 

*  eyes  beamed  upon  me,  as  she  lay  down  to  die  !     Did  she 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  99 

'see  me?  —  Yes,  till  the  film  closed  over  them  forever! 
*Poor  Ella!     But  it  was  soon  over,  —  no  gi'oan,  no 

*  struggle.     Slowly,  calmly,  came  and  went  her  breath, 

*  till  all  was  gone.     I  saw  it  all.     Her  mother,  father, 

*  brother  and  sister,  stood  around,  and  wept.     Did  I  ?  0, 

*  had  I  not  wept^  I,  too,  should  have  died  !     The  flood- 

*  gates  were  opened,  and  the  tide  gushed  forth.     But 

*  I  grew  calm,  and  then  bowed  me  beside  the  cold  corse, 

*  and  prayed  to  God,  —  prayed  for  strength,  hope,  endur- 

*  ance.     There  she  lay,  —  no,  no !  not  she,  but  her  silent 

*  form  !     She  went  on  the  birth-day  of  Jesus !  —  went  to 

*  Him.     I  did  not  see  her  spirit  pass ;  but  it  left  for  her 

*  long  home.     Night  comes,  —  a  night  of  grief.     0,  my 
'  widowed  couch  !  —  my  bird  has  flown.     But  we  may 

*  yet  lie  down  together,  in  the  last  sleep.     "Why  should  I 
'  live  now  ?     0,  God !  teach  me  to  know  and  feel  thy 

*  will !     Sorrow  of  soul  closes  over  the  death-day  of  poor 

*  Ella ;  but  she  lives  in  my  heart,  and  shall  live.     Fare- 

*  well,  then,  my  loved  one  !     I  'm  lonely  now.     Thou  wilt 

*  never  come  back,  save  in  spirit ;  but  I  shall  go  to  thee, 

*  perhaps  soon,  and  thou  wilt  greet  me.     Farewell,  then, 

*  for  a  while.     I  '11  struggle  on,  I  '11  toil,  I  '11  work  for 

*  God  and  humanity,  —  I  need  work  no  more  for  thee. 

*  2Qth.  —  My  Ella  slept  well,  last  night.    I  kept  think- 
'  ing  she  would  lie  cold,  for  the  night  was  bitter  cold,  and 

*  they  laid  her  out  with  only  a  sheet  for  coverins;.     No 

*  pain,  last  night,  —  no  hard  breathing ;  —  all  was  calm 

*  around  thy  couch.     Why  do  I  press  those  pale  lips,  and 
*that  cold  brow?     They  feel   not  now.     The   tear   I 

*  dropped  upon  thy  pale  face  was  not  wiped  away.     She 
'  died  with  consumption  of  the  lungs.     Dark  and  desolate 


100  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

'  the  world  without.  Kind  friends  flock  around,  —  ar- 
'  rangements  made  for  the  funeral.  Brother  U.  comes  — 
'  to-morrow  I  lose  sight  of  the  form  I  loved.  Why  do  I 
'  still  cling  to  it,  now  that  the  soul  is  gone?  —  Because  I 
'  knew  her  soul  only  through  its  form.  Night  again,  — 
'  alone,  alone  !  '^Tlth.  —  Shroud,  cofl&n,  hearse,  grave, 
'funeral,  desolation,  —  all,  all!  All  is  ready.  There 
'  she  lies,  —  is  not  her  spirit  looking  on  ?     Childish  as  it 

*  is,  I'place  a  scroll  in  her  hand  breathing  my  soul.  0, 
'  Ella !  how  can  I  bear  to  see  thee  so  ?  Here  is  the 
'  scene.  I  thought  I  was  calm,  and  could  bear  the  rest. 
'  But  to  put  thy  form  away  in  the  cold  earth !  —  I  would 
'  have  thy  coffin  a  soft  couch,  to  rest  thee  easy  in  thy 
'  grave.  The  hour  comes,  —  prepare,  prepare !  —  for  "  dust 
'  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return  !  "  Prayer  at 
'  the  house  by  Rev.  Mr.  Harrington,  Unitarian.  We 
'  follow  to  our  well-filled  place  of  worship.  Sermon  by 
'  Rev.  I.  D.  Williamson.  Yes,  the  Gospel  is  good  in 
'  this  hour,  —  the  text,  "  Death  shall  be  swallowed  up  in 
'  victory,"  &c.     I  forgot  all  sorrow  for  a  while,  listening. 

*  Tlie  closing  address  was  replete  with  words  of  sweetest 
'  consolation,  and  fell  like  balm  upon  my  wounded  and 
'  bleeding  heart.  I  found  relief  in  tears.  And  then  the 
'  music,  —  0,  that  singing,  up  there,  in  the  same  choir 
'  where  Ella  used  to  sing !  They  sang  the  favorite  piece 
'  Ella  and  I  used  so  often  to  sing,  "  When  shall  we  all  meet 
'  again  ?  "  And  now  the  last  look,  —  0  God !  I  shall  never 
'  see  her  more  !    Weep,  poor  bereaved  heart !    How  could 

*  I  leave  ?     My  brother  U whispers  in  my  ear,  as  I 

'stand  gazing  and  weeping,  —  "'Tis  but  the  shell, — 
'  come  !  "  and  I  know  it ;  but  it  was  a  shell  that  once  held 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  101 

*  the  purest,  sweetest,  dearest  soul  that  ever  loved  a  sin- 
*ful   man.     I   leave,  —  the  lid  closes,  they  carry  her 

*  away !     We  follow  to  a  beautiful  spot  I  have  selected 

*  in  the  city  of  the  dead  ;  and  there  we  laid  her  down,  and 

*  left  her  alone.     I  wish  we  could  have  laid  her  beside 

*  mj  own  mother ;  but  she  sleeps  far  away.     By  the  side 

*  of  Ella  there  is  a  spot  I  have  selected  for  myself.    When 

*  I  am  dead,  let  me  be  laid  there !     The  day  is  clear  and 

*  cold,  —  the  night  is  one  of  winter's  loveliest.     The  full 

*  moon  shines  down  upon  Ella's  grave.     We  spend  the 

*  evening  seeking  to  comfort  our  broken  spirits.     God 

*  Almighty,  to  thee  I  fly !  sleep  sadly.' 

.Af,  -5J,  .if,  -^  Af,  .iP 

^  lUf  •??■  -7^  •}?■  ^ 

'  That  vision  died,  in  troops  of  woe, 

*  In  blotting  drops,  dissolving  slow  ; 

*  Now,  toiling  day  and  sorrowing  night, 

*  Another  vision  fills  my  sight. 

'  A  cold  mound  in  the  winter  snow  ; 

*  A  colder  heart  at  rest  below  ; 

*  A  life  in  utter  loneness  hurled, 
'And  darkness  over  all  the  world. 

*  My  heart,  a  bird  with  broken  wing, 

*  Deserted  by  its  mate  of  spring, 

*  Droops,  shivering,  while  the  chill  winds  blow, 

*  And  fill  the  nest  of  love  with  snow.' 

B.  Taylor. 

9=^ 


102  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  MAKTYR   OF   LONE   LABORS   AND   SORROWS  BOWED. 

0,  YE  of  stoic  philosophy,  mock  not  the  sacred  griefs 
of  a  strong  man  bowed  to  the  dust !  The  Divine  Man 
himself  knew  sorrows,  that  wrung  his  eyes  with  tears 
and  his  soul  with  agony.  With  all  the  light  of  Heaven 
on  his  path,  the  world  anon  grew  dark  before  Him  with 
unutterable  woes !  He  saw  a  terrible  reality  in  disease 
and  death,  which  neither  the  brightest  hope  of  immor- 
tality nor  the  subtlest  worldly  philosophy  could  entirely 
elude  ;  and  he  poured  out  his  oWn  soul,  not  only  in  sym- 
pathy, but  in  actual  suffering.  The  stoic  or  the  philoso- 
pher who  attempts  to  wink  out  of  sight  the  actuality  of 
griefs  and  sorrows,  —  who  professes  that  the  pangs  of 
disease,  the  death-scene,  the  shroud,  the  pall,  the  grave, 
the  desolate  home,  are  nothing,  —  betrays  not  only  a 
want  of  deep  experience,  but  of  that  Christian  faith  and 
hope  which  can  dare  to  meet  the  stern  realities  of  suffer- 
ing, and  sometimes  bow  before  even  the  mysterious  will 
of  the  Father  in  the  hour  of  impenetrable  gloom. 

The  long  watchings,  the  painful  anxieties,  and  at 
last  the  great  bereavement  of  George,  left  him  low  in 
health  and  spirits.  He  is  thin,  weak  and  coughing; 
and  knows  not  where  it  will  end.  '  But  no  matter,' 
he  says.     '  I  can  die  now  when  Heaven  pleases.     Ella 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  103 

has  taught  me  how  to  die ! '  He  now  receives  a  letter 
of  invitation  from  the  society  to  which  he  preached  in 
New  York.  But  he  cannot  leave  Lawrence.  It  has 
too  manj  binding  associations.  The  following  Sunday 
finds  him  poorly  prepared  for  duty ;  but  he  goes  through 
as  usual.  The  next  day  he  tries  to  collect  his  scattered 
senses  for  labor ;  but  fails,  and  flies  to  his  elder  brother, 
in  Lowell.  The  new  ;^ear  1850  opens,  but  with  no 
hopes,  save  to  live  for  usefulness  and  duty.  The  past 
he  can  hardly  think  of,  the  future  he  dares  not  dream 
of,  but  leaves  all  with  God.  He  has  learned  to  hope  for 
nothing  selfish  or  sensuous.  His  affliction  has  thrown 
him  oa  the  bosom  of  Ood.     *  I  can  now  feel,'  he  says, 

*  what   I   have   only  spoken   before,   that   He   is   mj 

*  Father  i ' 

The  matter  of  leaving  Lawrence  for  New  York  is 
now  laid  before  his  society,  and  is  decided  for  Lawrence. 
It  is  an  hour  of  joy ;  but,  alas !  Ella  cannot  share  it  with 
him,  and  that  saddens  him.  He  must  labor  now  as  he 
has  never  done  before.  Labor  alone  can  save  him  from 
the  intensity  of  grief,  though  it  wears  him  away  to  a 
shadow.  His  Sunday-school  must  give  a  public  enter- 
tainment; and,  the  responsibility  falling  upon  him,  he 
writes  and  drills,  day  and  night,  for  weeks.  Many  new 
interests  engage  his  mind.  The  lyceum  lectures  of 
Lawrence  afford  him  rich  enjoyment,  and  especially  one 
from  the  young  and  brilliant  Rev.  "^  *  =^,  of  Bos- 
ton. For  an  hour  his  soul  forgot  its  sorrows,  and  soared 
away  in  spiritual  entrancement.  The  material  world 
lost  its  dull  shadows,  and  was  permeated  with  an  ethe- 
real glow  of  life  and  beauty,  thrilling  all  his  being  with 


104  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

the  divinest  aspirations.  And  when  the  hour  was  past, 
he  went  home  to  weep  with  joj,  and  yet  to  mourn  over 
himself.  His  pen  trembled,  and  all  his  own  thoughts 
seemed  dwarfed  into  insignificance,  compared  with  what 
he  had  just  heard. 

But  nothing  can  drive  Ella  from  his  lonely  heart. 
He  can  command  no  language  to  express  the  desolation 
he  sometimes  feels.  It  drives'  him  continually  to  the 
Great  Throne,  and  there  he  finds  peace.  His  thoughts 
wander  out  to  that  lone  new-made  grave ;  from  thence 
to  heaven;  then  back  around  him,  that  he  may  en- 
deavor to  realize  the  angel-spirit  hovering  near.  If  the 
winter  wind  blows  cold  about,  he  remembers  how  it 
swept  away  the  frail  form  of  Ella.  If  he  goes  to  his 
night-rest,  Ella  is  not  there.  If  he  longs  for  spring 
again,  he  remembers  that  Ella  can  no  more  feel  its  warm 
breath,  nor  mingle  her  voice  with  its  songs.  If  he  list- 
ens to  the  Sunday  songs  of  worship,  Ella  is  not  there,  as 
in  days  gone ;  '  Hushed  is  her  lute-string,  and  vacant 
her  chair ! '  And  where  is  she  ?  He  would  visit  her 
grave,  but  waits.  He  waits  till  he  can  train  himself  to 
feel  that  she  is  above  him,  not  down  cold  below ;  not  in 
the  grave,  but  in  heaven,  and  often  with  him  in  spirit. 

'  Diary y  February  22^,  1850.  —  My  heart  loses  but 
'little  of  its  sadness.  I  can  but  feel  I  am  alone. 
'  Jan.  24:th.  —  Crowded  houses,  —  more  seats  needed,  — 
'  still  they  come.  2btL  —  Nothing  to  break  the  monot- 
'  ony  of  my  lonely  life,  but  to  toil  on.  2Stk.  —  I  bid  a 
'  glad  farewell  to  winter.  Let  the  warm  sunshine  come 
'  again,  and  the  birds  sing.  But  my  bird  has  gone, 
'  Poor  soul,  sing  thyself  alone  I 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  105 

'  March  Wth.  —  I  am  elected  a  member  of  the  school- 

*  committee.  I  did  not  expect  this.  I  care  not  for  the 
'  office,  only  as  it  renders  me  more  useful  as  a  herald  of 

*  truth.  Sunday^  11  th.  —  Preach  in  exchange  with 
'  Rev.  J.  H.  Moore,  at  South  Reading.  Hours  of  lei- 
'  sure  pass  away  heavily  from  home.  Then  I  feel  my 
'  condition ;  and,  as  I  see  others  happy  in  their  homes 
'  and  with  their  companions,  O,  my  rebel  soul  I  2Stk. 
'  —  Engaged  with  school-committee  in  examining  candi- 
'  date  teachers.     About  a  dozen  young  ladies  present ; 

*  many  of  them  come  a  long  way.     This  is  a  hard  task ; 

*  for  we  need  only  two  or  three,  and  most  of  them  must 
'  go  away  disappointed.     I  bleed  for  them,  for  I  once 

*  suffered  thus. 

'  April,  2nd. — Darkness,  darkness !  0,  how,  at  times, 
'  it  mantles  my  soul !  Weep  !  no,  no,  I  can't !  If  I 
'  could,  my  poor,  lonely  heart  would  find  some  relief.  I 
'  pray  to  God.    1th.  —  Address  the  Sons  of  Temperance, 

*  in  the  Methodist  church,  after  funeral  services  are  per- 
'  formed  by  the  pastor.  I  was  denied  a  seat  in  the  pul- 
'pit,  —  another  instance  of  bigotry  destined  to  make 
'  some  stir.  Let  it  work,  —  I  like  it.  %th.  —  [Speak- 
'  ing  of  slow  and  poor  pay.]  Very  well.  I  have  no  wife, 
'no  family,  •:— none  but  myself.  I '11  be  patient,  and 
'wait.  Things  will  come  right.  \^th.  —  Visit  the 
'  death-bed  of  an  aged  lady,  who  has  been  a  Methodist 
'  most  of  her  life,  but  finds  she  needs  a  better  faith  in 
'  the  dying  hour.  Talked  and  prayed  with  her.  Wth. 
'  —  Enjoy  a  fine  social  visit  from  Brother  E.  C,  of 
'  Marblehead,  reading  and  communing.  VJth.  —  My 
'  brother  U to  leave  Lowell !     What !  are  we  to 


106  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

'  be  separated  again  ?  It  weighs  heavily  on  my  mind. 
'A  strong  link   that   binds   me  to  Lawrence  will   be 

*  broken.     We  have  rejoiced  in  being  near  each  other. 

*  l^th.  —  Brother  U.  goes  to  Providence,  R.  I.     Well, 

*  now  we  are  to  be  separated ;  but  God's  will  be  done ! 

'  May  2nd.  —  Visiting   and  adorning  the  grave  of 

*  Ella.     Sacred  retreat !  though  I  have  learned  to  think 

*  of  her  in  heaven,  —  above,  around,  in  the  spirit  world. 

*  6M.  —  How  Ella  sighed  for  this  warm  sun,  while  she 
'  suffered  during  the  dark  storms  of  December  !  But 
'  her  spring  is  in  immortality,  more  glorious  than  this, 
'  and  where  no  winds  nor  storms  shall  beat.     22?z^.  — 

*  Taking  census  of  children  of  the  town,  —  duty  of  the 
'school-committee.     0,  the   poverty,    squalidness   and 

*  filth,  I  meet !  —  abominable  to  civilization.    Sad  scenes, 

*  but  they  have  lessons.  June  \st.  —  [Closing  the 
'  eleventh  year  of  his  diary.]     A  year  of  trial ;  but 

*  0  !  have  I  not   been  blessed  ?     Why  do  I  murmur  ? 

*  It  must  not  be.  The  hand  of  God  was  in  it,  and  my 
'  poor  heart  has  been  schooled  for  new  toils  and  trials. 

*  Let  me  bow,  cease  to  murmur,  learn  more  to  trust  my 

*  God,  and  hush  these  sad  strains  !     But  I  close.    What 

*  is,  is  !     God  has  controlled  the  past.     I  have  recorded 

*  my   thoughts   and   labors.     Who   shall  '  read   them  ? 

*  Will   any  one   ever   drop  a  tear   over   the  mournful 

*  record  ?  0,  reader  !  my  soul  has  been  sad  and  siek, 
'  and  I  have  suffered  —  so  have  you,  —  that 's  all.     To 

*  whom  shall  I  dedicate  this  volume  ?     I  '11  leave  it  now.' 

Sunday,  June  4th,  opens  the  twelfth  and  the  last 
volume  of  his  diary.  Among  other  reflections,  running 
through  all  of  which  is  that  same  solemn  strain  of 


GEGEGE   HENRY   CLARK.  107 

chastening  sorrow,  he  writes,  '  0  time,  time !  when  wilt 

*  thou  ease  this  aching  heart  ?  —  when  will  this  desola- 

*  tion  be  gone  ?     Not  till  life  closes,  —  not  till  I  can 

*  forget  the  hopes  blasted.     Mj  God,  to  thee,  to  thee 

*  must  I  fl J  ! '  The  next  day,  in  company  with  his 
friend,  Rev.  A.  Gage,  he  attends  the  State  Convention, 
at  Milford,  Mass.,  and  is  appointed  clerk.  On  Sunday, 
9th,  he  preached,  in  exchange  with  Rev.  AV.  Hooper,  at 
Tyngsboro,  taking  a  chaise  alone  from  Lowell. 

'  All  around  me,'  he  writes,  '  was   still  and   lonely. 

*  Yet  I  was  sad  in  my  glorious  ride,  —  sad,  because  I 

*  was  alone ;  and  I  went  back  to  the  time  when  there 

*  was   one   who   cheered  me   in   all    my  journeyings. 

*  Alone  I  rode  on  in  the  beautiful  June  morning.  Na- 
ture smiled,  flowers  bloomed,  sweet  odors  arose  from 

*  field  and  foliage,  birds  sang  to  me ;  yet  I  was  sad, 

*  because  I  was  alone.     Alone  I  rode  back,  in  my  glory. 

*  Had  I  overtaken  a  beggar,  I  should  have  asked  him  to 

*  ride,  I  was  so  lonely  and  sad.  Ah,  me !  —  what  is 
'life!' 

Yet,  while  on  this  visit,  in  Lowell,  he  never  seemed 
more  cheerful,  more  humorous  or  happy ;  and  spent  a 
season  afibrding  social  delight  to  some  young  friends  he 
met.  His  cheerfulness,  however,  was  not  as  in  other 
days,  when  he  used  to  rebuke  himself  for  being  so  light 
at  heart. 

'  June  \Zth.  —  The  world  goes  busily  on.  It  has  a 
'  fever  at  times,  and   then  its  chills  and   agues.     The 

*  great  pulse  of  life  now  beats  quick  and  hard.  21^^;  — 
'  A   day  of  shadows  and   realities,  facts  and   fictions, 


108  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

*  joy  and  sadness.     Sunday,  2^rd.  —  Rains  all  day,  — 
'  audiences  small,  and  my  preaching  corresponds.' 

In  July,  a  happy  journey  is  enjoyed,  with  Mrs.  Tyler, 
to  Maine,  the  place  of  Ella's  nativity.  He  supplies  two 
Sundays  at  Bangor ;  travels  into  the  interior ;  is 
far  from  extravagant  in  compliments  to  some  parts  of 
the  country ;  admires  some  of  the  scenery,  however, 
yet  mourns  the  absence  of  Ella ;  meets  many  new 
friends  with  pleasure ;  takes  his  first  and  last  ocean 
ride ;  indulges  in  numerous  reflections  on  the  majesty 
and  grandeur  of  the  great  deep,  and  returns  home 
rather  happier.  He  now  preaches  two  Sundays  to 
an  eligible  society  in  search  of  a  pastor.  They  ne- 
gotiate with  him,  raise  expectations,  conclude  to  call 
him,  are  ready  to  vote;  and  then  some  suggest 
hearing  more  candidates.  George  is  contented;  he 
is  used  to  such  things,  and  takes  them  with  a  phi- 
losophy which  tells  him  to  know  his  place,  and  never 
fret  against  the  rough  sides  of  the  world.  A  lovely 
Sunday  evening  in  August  finds  him  again  standing 
over  the  grave  of  Ella.  But  no  tears  now  ;  all  is  calm. 
He  has  come  to  feel  she  is  in  heaven,  and  not  there. 
Immortality  has  grown  into  a  living  presence.  If  now 
he  feels  faint,  and  his  mission  feeble,  he  grasps  for 
another  life,  and  grows  strong  with  great  thoughts  of  a 
mission  celestial  and  never-ending. 

Now  he  enjoys  a  happy  season  with  his  elder  brother 
in  Providence,  in  exchange  with  Kev.  H.  Bacon; 
then  with  his  friend  E.  C.  and  lady,  at  Marble- 
head,  along  the  sea-shore,  and  amid  the  surrounding 
grandeurs  of  old  ocean,  whose  voices  come  to  him,  at 


GRORGB  HENRY  CLARK.  109 

this  time,  solemn  and  sacred,  yet  lulling  and  serene,  as 
from  afar,  far  oflf  from  that  land  whose  bounds  seem 
like  the  ocean-washed  horizon.  Now  autumn  comes, 
and  he  dreads  the  nearing  winter,  with  its  winds  with- 
out and  its  labors  within.  He  fears  his  health;  and 
yet,  in  the  event  of  its  failure,  he  leaps  with  the  hope 
of  rejoining  one  gone  before  him.  The  brother  nearest 
his  heart,  about  this  time,  involved  in  afflictions,  writes  to 
George  for  sympathy.  George's  answer  is  in  a  tone 
none  but  a  brother  could  feel,  and  feel  coming  from 
a  heart  laden  with  its  own  griefs,  yet  straining  with 
agony  to  lift  the  load  from  another,  and  pour  out  its 
very  blood  in  sympathy.  Heaven  forgive  the  call  made 
upon  that  loaded  spirit,  as  Heaven  now  blesses  its  sacri- 
fice !  A  little  later,  he  writes :  '  I  can  imagine  your 
'  fearful  and  intense  emotions,  magnified  by  a  thousand 

*  bugbear  imaginations.  I  know  by  experience.  A  few 
'  nights  since,  I  lay  down,  and  imagined  myself  feeling 

*  remarkably  queer.  And  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the 
'  more  I  felt  so,  till  I  did  feel  queer,  indeed,  —  and  such 
'  a  queerness  !  All  my  blood  seemed  rushing  to  one 
'-spot  —  my  heart.     It  became  a   reality.     My  pulse 

*  beat  with  tremendous  velocity.  I  kept  feeling  queerer 
'  and  queerer,  and  my  heart  thumped  louder  and  louder. 

*  All  at  once,  I  thought  I  might   be  undergoing  some 

*  great  physical  change,  or  even  dying.  I  sprang  from 
'  the  bed,  walked  the  floor  a  moment,  and  all  was  over. 
'  I  retired,  and  slept  sweet  as  ever.  I  have  often  had 
'  such  feelings,  and  they  are  awful.  I  could  tell  you 
'  many  a  sad  tale  of  creating  realities  out  of  fancies,  — 

*  dreadful  realities ;   of  blackness  and   horror   hatched 

10 


110  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

*  from  a  weary  and  disordered  brain,  —  the  world  all 

*  growing  black,  and  crumbling  beneath  me.  But 
'  enough.  We  are  living  a  strange  life,  —  it  is  strange 
'  and   wonderful,  —  and   eternity,   0,  eternity  !  —  but 

*  some  day,  some  glorious  day,  we  shall  know  all.  Yes, 
'  God  is  our  hope  and  refuge.  Our  faith,  —  how  sweet 
'  and  glorious  !  Why,  I  know  nothing  of  doubt,  now, 
'  for  years,  —  my  soul  is  so  full  of  faith  in  God  and  the 
'  Gospel.  If  clouds  have  been  over  me,  and  I  have 
'murmured  and  groaned,  I  have  also  prayed,  and 
'trusted,  and  toiled  on.' 

Exchanging  with  Rev.  C.  H.  Leonard,  of  Chelsea,  in 
October,  he  passed  an  evening  at  one  of  Jenny  Lind's 
sacred  concerts.  It  was  a  divine  era  in  his  life.  He 
sat  listening  and  thrilled,  till  every  fibre  of  his  frame 
seemed  a  charmed  ear.  The  chords  of  a  soul  long  send- 
ing forth  strains  of  earth-born  sorrow,  now  touched  by 
a  mistress'  hand,  vibrated  with  a  melody  born  of  heaven, 
and  eloquent  with  angel  voices,  calling  and  carrying  him 
away,  away  on  viewless  pinions,  amid  celestial  scenes. 
And  in  that  melody  he  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  Ella 
herself,  and  mingle  with  her.  All  night  long  he  floated 
away  in  dreams  of  the  lingering  song.  Had  the  song- 
stress herself  known  what  raptures  she  was  pouring  into 
that  poor,  suffering  heart,  't  would  have  been  worth 
more  than  all  the  thunders  of  applause  from  the  multi- 
tude. 

A  merry  journey,  with  his  young  sister-in-law,  Fran- 
ces, is  now  taken  to  New  Hampshire.  In  November  he 
makes  a  pleasant  visit  two  Sundays  with  the  society  in 
Springfield,  Mass.,  enjoying   the  hospitality  of  Mr.  E. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  Ill 

Trask.  Some  negotiation  was  advanced  in  regard  to 
settling  here  ;  but  it  ended  in  his  staying  in  Lawrence, 
contented  with  the  impression  that  Providence  had  there 
fixed  his  destiny. 

'  Diary,  November  2Gtk.  —  Write  till  I  am  almost 
'blind  and  dying.  2Sth. — My  poor  head!  —  weak. 
'  SOth.  —  Ready  for  three  services  to-morrow.  Decern,' 
'  ber  \2th.  —  Drag  a  sermon  from  my  brain.     There 

*  it  is,  on  paper.    IZth.  —  My  health  is  feeble,  —  I  grow 

*  poor.     0,  these  bleak,  biting  winds  and  storms  ! ' 

Writing  to  his  elder  brother,  he  says  he  has  grown  so 
transparent  he  is  '  scarce  able  to  cast  a  shadow,'  and 
thinks  there  is  prospect  of  his  soon  being  able  to  defy 
the  '  law  of  gravitation  and  attraction  ! '  But  he  takes 
it  seriously,  too.  The  interest  in  his  society  is  unusual ; 
houses  full ;  three  services  a  Sunday  are  driving  him  ; 
a  course  of  doctrinal  lectures  in  the  evening,  in  which 
he  labors  with  excessive  zeal  and  hope  for  good  results, 
is  tearing  on  brain  and  lungs,  —  he  knows  it ;  but  toil 
or  death  is  his  motto.  The  anniversary  of  Ella's  death- 
day  comes,  with  its  mournful  memories ;  and  he  cries 
out,  at  the  close  of  his  reflections,  '  Be  still,  poor  bleed- 
ing heart !  My  turn  will  soon  come.'  Duties  multi- 
ply, and  he  toils  on  with  an  enthusiasm  careless  of  how 
'  soon  his  turn  may  come.'  On  Sunday  evening,  Decem- 
ber 29th,  during  a  third  discourse  appropriate  to  the 
birth-day  of  the  Saviour,  his  pulse  rose  to  a  fever  height, 
his  whole  system  blazed,  his  brain  reeled,  and  he  sank 
back  in  his  seat.  The  Rev.  C.  Marston  was  with  him, 
and  closed  the  meeting ;  when  he  hurried  home,  and 
soon  recovered,  but  was  left  deeply  mortified  and  de- 


112  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

pressed.  '  I  fear  I  must  abandon  preaching.  Why  live, 
'  if  my  labors  must  cease  ?  January  1st,  1851.  —  I 
*  dream  that  life  with  me  is  short ;  perchance  this  is  my 
'last  New  Year's  day  on  earth.  But,  0,  there  is  an 
'  eternity  where  days  and  years  are  lost,  where  toils  and 
'  tears  are  no  more  !  Srd.  —  Must  prepare  my  Sunday- 
'  school  for  an  exhibition  ;  go  at  it.  Sunday,  bth.  —  Get 
'  through  the  day  well,  but  hard  time  in  the  evening ;  — 
'  was  sick,  and  came  near  dropping  down.  ^th.  —  A 
'  letter  from  home,  —  from  father ;  the  old  man  writes 
'  feelingly  and  religiously.  Grod  bless  him,  and  all  of 
'  them  !  IQth.  —  Sermonizing  goes  hard,  but  must  be 
'done;  at  it.  I'^th.  —  I  sit  brooding  over  my  feeble 
'condition,  till  I  sometimes  border  on  despair.  But 
'  there  is  no  use.  I  can  do  no  more  than  die ;  and 
'  what  is  it  to  die  ?  —  to  be  released,  and  go  where  this 
'  weary  soul  may  find  rest.  0,  to  die  !  —  to  be  reii- 
'  nited  to  my  angel-wife  !  —  it  would  be  more  sweet 
'  than  bitter.' 

Evening  lectures  are  now  dropped,  and  the  next  Sun- 
day finds  him  barely  able  to  labor  through  two  services  ; 
the  next,  still  less  able,  and  he  is  relieved  by  a  visit  from 
Rev.  W.  G.  Cambridge.  Now  his  society's  festival 
comes  off,  yielding  handsome  results,  but  leaving  him 
worn  out.  His  exhibition  is  on  his  mind,  and  his  duties 
as  town  school-committee.  His  heart  is  fearfully  pal- 
pitating under  the  load  of  responsibility.  He  brings 
himself  down  to  a  strict  regimen,  and  seeks  exertion  in 
the  open  air.  But  the  next  Sunday  finds  him  too  weak 
for  service,  and  he  blessed  the  kind  aid  of  his  friend, 
Rev.  W.  Spaulding.     He   also  blesses  his  society  for 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  113 

volunteering  three  Sundays  of  gratuitous  rest.  Three 
weeks  !  —  it  seems  a  long  time  for  him  to  rest.  He  visits 
his  brother  in  Providence,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Dr. 
Manly,  a  motherly  friend  of  Canandaigua  acquaintance. 
But  his  stay  is  short ;  he  is  restless,  and  pines  for  his 
own  favorite  room  at  home.  His  people  enjoy  the  ser- 
vice of  Rev.  Dr.  H.  Bailou,  2nd,  one  Sunday,  and  George 
finds  high  solace  in  his  revered  company.  Rev.  E.  W. 
Reynolds  supplies  another  Sunday ;  the  three  weeks 
have  passed,  and  now  for  work  once  more.  An  essay 
is  prepared  and  read  before  the  M.  R.  M.  Circle,  at 
Lowell ;  health  seems  renewing.  Winter  departs  ;  and 
the  first  Sunday  in  March  again  finds  him  in  his  desk, 
though  relieved  half  a  day  by  his  brother.  Rev.  W.  H. 
Waggoner,  of  Methuen.  Next  Sunday,  he  works  all 
day  easily ;  on  the  following,  he  says,  '  Providence 
sends  him  Rev.  G.  H.  Emerson  to  help.'  Now  near 
sick,  and  shivering  in  the  March  wind,  he  sighs  for 
spring  and  summer.     0,  how  worn  and  world-weary ! 

Another  Sunday  comes,  and  he  has  the  help  of  a  new 
preacher,  who  breaks  down  and  tears  George's  nerves 
with  mortification.  And  now  an  exchange  with  his 
neighbor,  Rev.  L.  B.  Mason,  of  Haverhill.  Next  at 
home,  and  in  the  evening  his  Sunday-school  exhibition. 
0,  that  exhibition! — on  his  mind  for  weeks,  with 
nearly  all  the  labor  of  writing,  arranging,  and  rehearsing 
again  and  again,  —  alas  !  it  was  grinding  out  his  life. 
And  then,  it  must  be  repeated.  As  I  now  run  over 
his  diary  at  this  date,  and  then  glance  at  the  printed 
programme  of  exercises,  I  read  a  sad  tale  of  sickening 
energies,  consuming  with  anxiety  and  toil,  to  train  those 
10=^ 


114  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

little  lambs  of  his  flock  to  appear  upon  a  stage  he  might 
soon  vacate ;  and,  to  prepare  them  for  this,  he  seemed 
willing  to  lay  his  own  life,  in  hope  that  his  spirit,  in 
after  time,  might  reappear  in  them  to  bless  the  world. 
0,  ye  of  the  sceptic  school  !  say  not  the  spirit  of  mar- 
tyrdom died  out  with  the  fire  of  ancient  fagots,  while 
many  a  servant  of  Christ  is  thus  wearing  himself  away 
in  the  lowly  duties  of  his  mission  ! 

Three  Sundays  of  feeble  labor  now  pass  at  home,  and 
then, 

'  Sunday,  May  Wth. —  Preach  my  annual  sermon. 
'  Something  tells  me  this  will  be  my  last  annual  ser- 
'  mon.  Three  ^^ears  and  a  half  I  have  labored  in  Law- 
'  rence ;  and  shall  I  continue  another  year,  or  be  in  an- 
'  other  "  country,  from  whose  bourn  no  traveller  re- 
'  turns  "  ?     Well,  as  God  wills.' 

At  this  time,  the  hopes  of  his  society  were  never 
brighter,  and  the  building  of  a  new  church  is  again  ear- 
nestly entertained.  All  is  encouraging,  except  his 
health.  He  engages  a  garden-plot,  to  employ  leisure 
hours  in  cultivating  it.  But  he  soon  fails  in  strength 
for  manual  labor.  The  discipline  of  sickness  and  sorrow 
has  wrought  great  moral  changes  in  him.  Writing  to 
his  elder  brother,  he  wonders  at  the  change,  and  says, 
'  I  have  conquered  the  flesh ;  I  defy  the  devil ;  but  I 
have  not  yet  entirely  relinquished  the  world.'  Then 
he  relates  a  happy  dream  of  Ella,  conjured  by  reading 
Mrs.  Crowe's  '  Night  Side  of  Nature.'  Now  receiving 
an  invitation  to  preach  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  and  anxious 
to  visit  New  York,  he  journeys  thither,  stopping  a  while 
at  Providence,  on  the  way. 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  115 

A  solemn,  lonely,  moonlighted  night's  ride,  on  the 
Sound,  Lands  him  at  New  York  in  the  morning,  and  the 
Sunday  finds  him  in  Newark,  to  preach  for  the  First 
Society,  but  unfit  for  labor.  He  struggles  through  the 
morning  service,  and  the  friends  expostulate  against  his 
attempting  another.  Eut  yes,  he  must,  though  feeble 
enough,  had  he  been  at  home,  to  take  his  bed.  He  went 
through  another  service,  with  labors  like  battling 
against  death  itself,  and  was  left  so  prostrate  as  to  call 
a  physician.  The  good  friends  in  the  society,  and  the 
family  of  Mr.  Jaques,  did  all  they  could  to  lift  his 
spirits,  and  to  have  him  stay  another  Sunday.  But  no, 
no.  He  was  weary,  worn,  broken  down  in  heart,  and 
would  go  to  his  old  home  in  Cross  River.  He  hurried 
to  his  oldest  brother's,  in  Jersey  City,  and  spent  Mon- 
day night,  with  the  design  of  starting  for  Cross  River 
the  next  morning.  But  the  cars  leave  him,  and  Tues- 
day night  he  starts  for  Providence,  where  he  meets  with 
the  Rhode  Island  State  Convention.  On  Wednesday 
evening  he  contributed  an  impressive  part  to  a  general 
conference ;  and  on  Thursday  morning  preached  one  of 
his  favorite  discourses,  — '  The  religion  of  the  head  and 
of  the  heart.'  His  voice  was  feeble,  yet  earnest  and 
full  of  soul,  —  0,  hov7  full  to  one  who  had  often  heard, 
but  now  for  the  last  time,  from  the  sacred  desk !  Long 
shall  its  tremulous  echoes  linger,  playing,  with  serene 
and  solemn  melody,  amid  the  deep  vibrating  heart-chords 
of  a  brother's  love !  And  had  those  who  then  heard 
known  it  was  the  last  time  but  one  that  voice  should 
be  lifted  on  earth  with  the  message  of  God,  what  holy 
thrills  would  have  passed  over  every  listening  soul !     To 


116  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

the  invalid  evangelist  that  last  meeting  in  conventiou 
with  his  brethren  was  among  the  richest  in  spiritual 
emotions. 

^  Diary,  May  2Srd,  1851. —  Reach  home  again  in 
'  Lawrence,  just  at  night,  —  a  weary  journey.  Glad  to 
'greet  loved  ones  who  gather  around  me.  24:th. — 
"Worn,  weary,  and  reduced  by  my  journey.  Know 
'  not  how  I  shall  get  through  duties  to-morrow ;  yet  have 

*  engaged  no  help,  and  expect   none,  save  from   God, 

*  which  may  he  grant  me  ! 

'  Sunday,  May  2bth,  1851.  —  Tis  past,  and  I  am 
'  done  !  Attempted  to  preach,  this  morning  ;  succeeded 
'  in  getting  through,  and   that  is  all.     Dare   not   try 

*  again,  this  afternoon.  Send  for  Br.  Waggoner,  and 
*beg  him   to   come.     He  comes.     This  will   probably 

*  close  my  ministry  for  the  present.  I  shall  not  attempt 
'again.  And  must  it  be?  0,  my  soul!  must  I  cease 
'  preaching  ?  Yes,  yes  !  —  it  is  my  Father's  will,  and  I 
'  obey.     But,  0,  it  causes  me  a  struggle,  when  I  think 

*  it  is  inevitable.  And  yet  I  submit.  God  knows  best, 
'  and  ordereth  all  things  ! ' 

Thus  ends  his  diary.  The  blank  leaves  that  fol- 
low are  there ;  —  but  the  record  his  trembling  hand 
could  no  longer  write  there  is  written  deep  on  the  tablet 
of  his  soul,  to  be  read  only  in  the  light  of  Heaven. 


GEOEGE  HENEY  CLAEK.  117 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HIS    VALEDICTORY. THE   WANDERING   INVALID. LAST 

SCENE. 

Now  that  I  can  no  longer  refer  to  a  diary  whicli  has 
aided  my  memory  through  twelve  years  of  the  life 
before  us,  I  am  nearly  lost,  and  dependent  solely  upon 
a  feeble  correspondence,  and  upon  memories  too  keen  to 
be  revived,  without  causing  some  pangs  of  grief,  which 
I  would  fain  hold  too  sacred  for  revelation  to  those  who 
cannot  sympathize.  Reader,  pardon  me  now,  if  some- 
times I  forget  the  biographer  in  the  brother,  and  draw 
nearer  to  him  who  is  fiist  receding  from  all  things 
earthly ! 

May  26th,  the  day  after  his  failure,  he  writes  with  a 
spirit  more  buoyant  than  his  condition  would  seem  to 
promise.  He  attributes  his  aggravated  indisposition  to 
the  unsuitable  food  he  was  compelled  to  partake,  while 
on  his  late  journey.  He  complains  most  of  a  palpitation 
and  sinking  of  the  heart,  arising  from  a  derangement 
that  affects  the  lungs,  and  causes  the  deepest  mental 
depression.  His  malady  was  probably  induced  by  an 
early  abuse  of  appetite,  confinement  to  writing,  the  ex- 
citements of  duty,  and  grief  of  heart.  He  writes  for 
advice  in  regard  to  his  course,  suggests  closing  his  min- 


118  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

istry,  invokes  the  heartiest  good  cheer,  and  faeetiouslj 
proposes  raising  ^me  worldly  scheme,  to  see  if  he  may 
not  regain  his  health,  and  keep  in  the  world  awhile 
longer.  There  is  a  solemn  jollity  in  his  tone,  sounding 
strange,  indeed,  to  those  who  know  not  his  nature.  His 
next  letter,  June  4th,  speaks  more  forebodingly  ;  but  he 
does  not  alarm  himself.  He  puts  himself  on  a  lower 
regimen,  and  threatens  to  '  starve  the  enemy  out.'  He 
is  perplexed  in  regaixi  to  his  relation  with  his  society. 
His  father  writes  him  to  come  home  to  Cross  River, 
offering  anything  he  chooses  to  help  him.  'The  old 
'  gentleman  says  I  can  have  a  horse  and  carriage ;  or,  if  I 
'  want  exercise,  I  can  assist  on  the  farm  or  in  the  store.' 
'  Jmie  12th.  —  You  will  get  but  few  words,  this  time. 
'  Your  advice  may  be  good,  yet  it  is  another  thing  for  a 
'sick  man  to  practise  it.     I  have  been  on  diet  three 

*  years,  and  what  is  the  result  ?  As  for  the  prescrip- 
'  tions  of  elderly  ladies,  I  have  never  tried  them,  but  am 
'  sometimes  tempted  so  to  do.  You  make  light  of  my 
'  projecting  an  auction  sale ;  —  but  I  tell  you  I  have 
'  many  things,  besides  my  professionals,  I  need  to  dis- 
'pose  of.  When  I  take  up  here,  I  know  not  when  or 
'  where  I  shall  settle  again  ;  —  perhaps  in  another  and 

*  better  world.  I  shall  be  adrift  once  more,  and  your 
'  home  will  be  mine.  If  I  have  a  surplus  from  my  sale, 
'  I  will  call  on  you  to  help  keep  it ;  for  money  was 
'  always  a  great  trouble  to  me,  in  case  I  ever  had  a  few 
'  dollars  more  than  I  wanted  for  use.  Change  burns  my 
'  purse,  and  creates  such  an  unpleasant  sensation,  that 
'  when  my  hand  touches  it,  it  adheres,  and  out  it 
'  comes.     That  is  the  way  my  money  goes.'     At  the 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  119 

close  of  his  letter,  he  describes  himself  waiting  in  the 
attitude  of  Mr.  Micawber,  for  *  something  to  turn  up.' 
*  June  2bth.  —  What  did  Brother  S.  mean  by  say- 

*  ing  you  looked  poor,  miserable  and  haggard  ?     Look 

*  wise,  or  you  will  be  where  I  am.     I  have  grown  so 

*  mortal  poor  that  I  have  now  given  up  trying  to  cast  a 
'  shadow.  The  sun  seems  to  shine  right  through  me, 
'  and  the  strongest  blasts  of  wind  whistle  b}-,  meeting 
'■  little  or  no  obstruction  in  me.  My  present  business  is 
'  to  ride.  I  have  an  old  horse  lent  me,  and  I  keep  him 
*^  going,  going.     I  'm  the  "  Flying  Dutchman  "  of  Law- 

*  rence,  seen  everywhere  and  nowhere.     The  burning 

*  of  our   hall   of  worship,  and  all  our  books,  together 

*  with  my  sickness  and  going  away,  makes  our  people 

*  feel  almost  discouraged ;  and  I  have  no  strength  to 

*  animate  them.  The  Lord  bless  them,  my  long-loved 
'  friends,  with  whom  I  have  labored,  suffered  and  sym- 

*  pathized,  it  seems  an  age,  and  yet  it  is  not  quite  four 

*  years !     But,  0,  I  have  lived  fast,  and  all  the  rest  of 

*  my  life  is  as  nothing  compared.  Here,  in  Lawrence, 
'  have  risen  all  my  greatest  hopes  and  struggles,  and 

*  here  they  have  fallen ;  and  on  one  of  its  hill-sides, 
'  beneath  the  shady  tree,  where  I  laid  the  remains  of 
'■  the  loved  one,  I  have  a  cherished  spot,  where  I  wish 
'  my  bones  to  rest,  when  I  too  am  fallen.' 

This  is  a  sad  season  to  the  long-tried  baud  of  believ- 
ers in  Lawrence;  but  they  hold  steadfast.  For  sup- 
plies, George  and  his  people  are  grateful  to  Revs.  A.  R. 
Abbott,  S.  Cobb,  V.  Lincoln,  and  W.  H.  Waggoner, 
till  Sunday,  July  6th,  when  his  resignation  takes  effect, 
and  the  mournful  valedictory  is  given.     Mr.  Waggoner 


120  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

came  from  Methuen,  carried  him  to  the  place  of  wor- 
sliip,  conducted  the  service,  and  preached  for  him ;  at 
the  conclusion  of  which  he  arose,  and,  with  a  *  voice  as 
clear  and  pleasant '  as  he  ever  commanded,  —  so  writes 
Mr.  W.,  —  he  gave  his  last  message : 

*  Brethren  and  Sisters  :  In  dissolving  the  rela- 
'  tion  which  has  long  existed  between  us  as  pastor  and 
'  people,  it  would  seem  proper  that  I  should  ofiPer  a  fare- 
'  well  discourse.  Did  my  health  permit,  I  should 
'  esteem  it  both  a  privilege  and  duty  thus  to  close  my 
'  labors ;  but,  as  I  am  denied  that  favor,  I  can  do  no 
'  less  than  offer  a  few  remarks.  Of  course,  all  that  I 
'  say  will  be  based  on  the  supposition  that  the  resigna- 
'  tion  I  am  about  to  tender  will  be  accepted.  I  need 
'  say  nothing  of  the  seeming  decree  of  Providence,  ren- 
'  dering  this  step  not  only  expedient,  but  imperative. 
'  That  I  am  sick  and  cannot  preach,  you  all  know 
'  well.  That  it  is  inevitable  I  must,  for  a  short  or  long 
'  time,  lay  down  my  professional  cares  and  responsibili- 
'  ties,  and  attend  to  my  poor,  weak  body,  is  not  only 

*  evident  to  you,  but  is  forced  home  to   myself  with 

*  startling  convictions  of  duty.  But  no  one  can  know 
'  the  struggle  it  has  cost  me  to  bring  my  mind  to  take 

*  this  step,  nor  the  deep  feelings  of  regret  which  agitate 
'  me  as  I  proceed  to  take  it.  I  have  been  so  long  in 
'  Lawrence,  so  identified  with  all  its  interests,  so  entered 

*  into  the  spirit  and  enterprise  of  its  citizens,  that  I 
'  have  looked  upon  this  place  as  my  home.  It  has 
'  seemed  that  a  portion  of  it  belonged  to  me ;  and  as  I 
'  have,  with  all  the  pride  of  citizenship,  pointed  the 
'  stranger  to  this  or  that  public  work,  I  have  felt  as 
'  though  it  was  in  part  mine. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  121 

*  But,  more  than  all,  I  have  identified  myself  with 
'  the  interests  of  my  own  people  and  society.     Your 

*  prosperity  has  been  mine,  and  I  have  rejoiced  with 

*  you.     Your  sorrows  and  misfortunes  have  been  mine, 

*  and   I   have  felt  heaviness  of  soul  over  them.     In 

*  all  my  joys  and  sorrows,  .1  have  received  your  kind 
'  sympathy ;  and  around  me  is  woven  a  spell  which, 
'  till  recently,  I  little  dreamed  was  so  soon  to  be 
'  broken.  The  familiar  faces  of  many  old  friends  seem 
'  like  my  own  family ;  and  as  long  as  earthly  impres- 

*  sions  linger  on  my  mind,  those  faces  will  remain  indel- 

*  ibly  stamped  on  my  soul.  But  I  have  no  strength  or 
'  desire  to  review  the  past.     And,  besides,  it   is  too 

*  replete  with  interests  and  incidents  of  sacred  remem- 

*  brance,  to  justify  the  attempt  to  speak  of  it  at  this 

*  eventful  hour.  To  recall  them  would  be  to  arouse  the 
'  sad  reflection  that  they  are  gone,  —  gone  forever,  — 

*  and  that  I  may  no  more  participate  in  scenes  of  a 

*  kindred  character.     Let  memory  hold  its  treasures. 

*  To  me  it  is  a  dearly  valued  book,  though  on  its  pages 

*  I  read  the  story  of  loss  and  misfortune,  of  bereave- 

*  ment  and  withered  hopes,  of  years  of  trials  and  strug- 
'  gles ;  and  its  leaves  are  blotted  with  tears  of  sorrow 
'  and  woe ;  yet  it  reveals  the  smile  of  gladness,  and  the 
'  sunshine  of  blessings  long  beaming  upon  us. 

'  The  future  belongs  to  God  and  eternity,  and  expe- 

*  rience  alone  can  unfold  its  realities.     There  is,  for  this 

*  world,   no   future  with  me ;  to-day  is  all ;  what  to- 

*  morrow  will  bring  I  leave  with  my  Creator.     The 

*  present  misfortunes  of  our  society  are  too  bitter  and 

*  disheartening  for  me  to  notice  with  that  coolness  which 

11 


122  LIFE-SKETCHES    OP 

*  would  enable  me  to  lay  before  you  any  plan  for  action. 
'  Your  own  judgment  will  no  doubt  dictate  for  the  best. 

*  A  shade  has  sometimes  come  over  me,  as  I  feared 
'  many  might  grow  weary,  disheartened,  and  withdraw 
'  themselves    from    worship,    thereby    impairing    the 

*  strength  of  the  society.     I  pray  God  this  may  not  be  ! 

*  and  I  beseech  you,  brethren,  sisters  and  friends, 
'  "  Hold  fast !  —  fight  the  good  fight  of  faith,"  —  our 
'  faith,  —  ^^  the  faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints,"  and 
'  God  will  give  you  the  crown  and  victory  !  You  have 
'  toiled  too  long  and  sacrificed  too  much,  in  the  cause  of 
'  truth,  now  to  withdraw  from  its  support,  or  suffer  the 
'  ministry  of  Jesus  to  be  enfeebled  for  the  want  of  means. 
'  The  storm  has  now  swept  over  us,  it  is  true ;  but  it  is 

*  not  the  fii-st  time  we  have  felt  its  blast.  Brave  hearts 
'  will  not  shrink.     Stand  firm,  united,  and  you  can  out- 

*  live  any  misfortune.  All  these  trials  are  but  tests  of 
'  your  faith  and  endurance.  I  trust  you  will  stand 
'  firm,  and  in  a  short  time  that  my  heart  may  be  glad- 

*  dened  with  tidings  that  the  First  Universalist  Society 
'  in  Lawrence  is  again  rejoicing  in  the  full  tide  of  pros- 
'  perity.  May  God  grant  it !  And  I  beg  you  will  look 
'  after  the  Sunday-school.  Those  dear  ones  of  our  care 
'  must  not  be  neglected.     They  must  meet  regularly, 

*  even  though  you  should  suspend  worship  for  the  want 
'  of  a  place  or  pastor.  Keep  thriving  and  green  this 
'  nursery  of  truth.     0,  how  many  hours  of  care  and 

*  anxiety  have  I  spent  in  studying  the  interests  of  the 
'  lambs  of  my  flock !  and  yet  those  hours  have  been 

*  sweetened   with   the   richest   rewards.      True,    their 

*  noble  and  well-selected  library,  the  product  of  their 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  123 

'  own  labor,  is  in  ashes ;  yet  a  school,  with  faithful 

*  superintendents  and  teachers,  may  be  sustained ,  with 

*  interest  and  profit,  even  without  a  library. 

'  But  I  hasten  to  close.     I  have  no  words  to  express 

*  the  gratitude  I  feel  towards,  not  only  the  society, 
'  but  members  of  the  congregation,  for  all  the  kindness 
'  and  consideration  shown  me.  I  can  but  say,  I  thank 
'  you,  from  the  depths  of  my  heart.  I  thank  you  for 
'  your  tokens  of  good  will  and  affection ;  for  your 
'  indulgence  of  my  youth  and  weakness ;   for  the  kind 

*  words  spoken  to  me  and  for  me ;  for  your  encourage- 

*  ment  while  pursuing  my  arduous  labors,  and  while 
'  endeavoring  to  speak  the  truth  in  the  feaj-  of  God  and 
'  love  of  my  Master ;  and  many  a  word  of  encourage- 

*  ment  do  I  remember  falling  upon  my  desponding  and 
'  despairing  soul,  like  dew  from  heaven,  to  revive  my 

*  faltering  energies  into  new  life  and  activity.     I  thank 

*  you  for  the  kind  hospitality  ever  extended  as  I  have 
'  entered  your  doors  on  my  rounds  of  pastoral  duty, 
'  and  the  warm  grasp  of  your  hands.  And,  finally,  I 
'  thank  you  for  all  the  sympathy  and  condolence  I 
'  received    during   those   severest  trials,  those  darkest 

*  days,  when  it  pleased  my  Father  long  to  affiict  my 
'  beloved  companion,  and  at  last  to  call  her  away,  leav- 
'  ing  me  to  a  lone  pilgrimage ;  and  not  only  during  that 
'  dark  period,  but  when,  as  now,  the  hand  of  disease 
'  was  laid  upon  myself,  rendering  me  powerless  and 
'  useless.  God  bless  you,  and  reward  you  all,  and  give 
'  you  every  need  and  comfort  in  life,  and  a  crown  of 
'  glory,  when,  with  a  redeemed  world,  he  shall  gather  us 
'  all  to  Himself  ! 


124  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

'  I  am  done.    I  now  resign  my  office  as  pastor  of  this 

*  society,  to  which  I  was  unanimously  elected  three  years 
'  ago  last  May.     And  may  the  Lord  send  you  another 

*  who  will  try  to  do  his  duty  as  faithfully  as  I  have 
'  tried  to  do  mine ;  who  will  love  and  labor  for  you  and 
'  our  cause  as  I  have  loved  and  labored ;  yet  one  who 

*  will    prove   more   eminently   successful  in  all  things 

*  than  I  have  been.     Farewell  I ' 

It  was  only  with  an  effort  almost  superhuman  that  he 
finished  this  brief  address ;  but  he  went  through  calmly 
and  firmly ;  and  then,  with  choking  emotions,  he  sank 
down,  amid  the  loud  sobs  and  streaming  faces  of 
a  crowded  audience,  whose  every  heart  seemed  touched, 
melted  and  broken,  with  unutterable  grief  and  sympathy. 

A  few  days  after  this,  he  writes  with  more  than 
usual  cheer.  His  library,  with  a  case  and  secre- 
tary, in  which  he  had  taken  great  pride,  is  packed, 
labelled  and  stored,  to  be  used  again,  he  knows  not 
where  or  when,  if  ever.  All  is  squared  with  the  world, 
and  he  is  now  ready  for  his  old  home.  But  friends 
plead  with  him  in  Lawrence ;  proffer  their  favors  and 
sympathies,  overcome  him  with  kindness,  and  it  is  hard 
to  leave ;  especially  to  leave  the  loved  home  of  his 
parents-in-law,  where  everything  was  done  to  supply 
all  his  wants,  and  his  wishes  were  anticipated  with  a 
watchful  love  equal  to  that  of  an  own  fiither  and 
mother.  Moreover,  he  was  too  feeble  to  journey. 
After  the  delay  of  a  few  days,  however,  he  starts, 
accompanied  by  Mrs.  Tyler,  as  far  as  Providence,  where 
he  remains  a  week.  The  heat  of  the  season  is  excessive, 
but  he  enjoys  it  well,  though  extremely  sensitive  in 


GEORGE  UENRY  CLARK.  125 

regard  to  every  little  annoyance.  He  is  able  to  walk 
but  little,  and  requires  constant  attendance,  giving 
notice  to  everybody  not  to  expect  anything  of  him, 
but  be  ready  to  move  at  his  call,  or  take  an  ebullition  of 
bis  humor.  All  who  knew  the  peculiarities  of  his 
malady,  mental  and  physical,  merely  smiled,  and  made 
the  largest  allowance  for  the  ludicrously  extravagant 
expressions  in  which  he  sometimes  indulged. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  his  father  and  brother  Hosea 
met  him  at  Providence,  and  the  former  accompanied 
him  to  Cross  River.  July  28th  he  writes  :  '  I  arrived 
'  home  Saturday  evening,  but  considerably  worn  down. 
'  After  a  Sunday's  rest,  with  the  invigorating  air  of 
'  these  old  hills,  I  feel  stronger  and  better,  though  I 
'  still  "  move  like  a  ghost."  '  Soon,  however,  he  grew 
discontented.  The  old  homestead  had  been  leased,  dur- 
ing the  season,  for  a  new  house  in  the  village,  half  a 
mile  off,  and  nothing  seemed  like  home.  He  rode  up 
past  the  old  farm  and  old  home,  and  was  heart-sick  to 
linger  there  and  rest  his  weary  soul  amid  the  scenes 
and  associations  of  childhood.  To  see  strange  faces 
peering  through  the  windows  of  the  old  domicile,  and 
strange  forms  walking  in  fhll  possession  of  the  paths 
of  old  scenes,  made  him  feel  not  only  melancholy,  but 
almost  indignant.  .  He  longed  to  roam  and  muse  over 
the  hills,  the  fields,  the  woodlands,  of  happier  years ;  and 
lie  down  in  those  chamber  windows,  from  which  stretched 
the  landscape  of  ear^y  love,  and  rose  the  blue  dome  of  a 
heaven  filled  with  the  light  of  brightest  hopes  and 
dreams,  now  fading  from  the  world,  —  now  rising,  now 
receding  towards  the  dome  of  a  heaven  eternal  in 
11* 


126  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

fruition.  And  he  sighed  for  the  song  of  those  same 
birds,  singing  from  the  same  trees  as  thej  used  to  sing 
when  life  was  airy  and  sweet  with  the  melody  of  a  joy- 
ous heart. 

The  cause  of  his  sadness  here  was  lamented  by  the 
father  and  friends,  and  everything  possible  was  done  to 
render  him  reconciled.  But  he  was  unhappy.  He 
longed  for  the  society  of  friends  who  had  known  him  in 
the  sorrows  and  labors  of  manhood.  Faces  around  him, 
dear  and  familiar  in  childhood,  had  changed,  and  he  had 
changed,  and  all  had  changed;  and  new  and  strange 
faces,  known,  perhaps,  in  infancy,  peered  at  him  with 
glances  of  curiosity  which  made  him  feel  he  was  a 
stranger  and  alone,  even  amid  the  loved  haunts  of  other 
years.  Moreover,  he  required  certain  food  found  in  no 
inland  village  in  summer.  He  grew  tired  of  his  fare, 
though  every  possible  variety  was  provided.  To  a 
plain,  kind-hearted  neighbor,  named  Addis,  noted  for 
eccentric  generosities,  George  owned  himself  peculiarly 
grateful.  Addis  would  often  go  out  a  fishing,  and,  on 
his  return,  dress  some  of  the  finest  of  his  luck,  slyly 
send  in  the  piscatory  dish  to  the  invalid,  positively  re- 
fusing the  coin  offered  as  pay,  unless  George  managed 
to  slip  it  into  his  hand  as  a  gift  to  his  excellent  wife. 
Another  inconvenience  arose  from  the  remoteness  of 
medical  attendants  of  hisj  choice.  At  this  time  he  was 
under  the  homoeopathic  treatment  of  Dr.  McKnight,  of 
Providence;  and  was  encouraged  with  his  success,  be- 
lieving that  no  other  treatment  could  help  him. 

For  a  while  at  home  he  enjoyed  the  visit  of  Mrs. 
Lydia  A.  Clark,  lady  of  his  brother,  from  Jersey  city, 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  127 

and  was  comparatively  contented.  Then,  for  a  few 
days,  followed  our  last  visit  together  amid  native  scenes. 
To  him  it  was  an  era  of  new  life.  Once  more,  and  for 
the  last  time,  day  after  day,  we  thridded  old  paths ; 
we  bathed  in  the  same  stream  along  whose  banks  we 
had  often  lingered  in  the  sunny  days  of  childhood; 
we  listened  to  the  same  wild  minstrel  songs  whose 
melody  floated  into  all  our  dreams  of  love,  and  hope, 
and  ambition;  we  tramped  over  the  same  sands  and 
fields  we  had  trod  with  lighter  step,  though  with  bared 
and  blistering  feet;  we  reclined  on  the  same  banks 
and  beneath  the  same  shadowing  foliage  where  we  used 
to  lie,  soft  and  sweet,  when  life  had  few  thorns  for  our 
pillows,  and  was  all  foliage  and  flowers ;  we  lived  over 
the  early  years  gone  forever,  and  recounted  the  unnum- 
bered toils  and  trials,  joys  and  hopes,  which  had  left  so 
little,  after  all,  that  could  slake  the  eternal  aspirations 
of  the  soul;  we  walked  the  same  woodlands  which 
had  once  oft  heard  our  voices  echoing  sighs  and  songs, 
shouts  of  joy  and  bursts  of  grief,  loud  peals  of  laughter, 
and  deep  groans  of  agony  in  prayer  to  a  then  dreadful 
Deity ;  we  clambered  over  the  same  hills  and  sat  down 
together  upon  the  same  mossed  rocks  from  which  we 
gazed  enraptured  upon  the  grand  old  landscape,  rolling 
afar  on  every  hand,  and  stretching  away,  away  to  the 
blue  Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  till  sight  is  lost  in  the 
dim,  hazy  horizon,  now  symbolizing  dreams,  hopes,  all, 
all  of  earth  fading,  rising,  receding  into  the  infinite  !  0, 
solemn  and  serene  the  fraternal  commune  of  those  hours, 
those  scenes  !  —  blessed  prophecy  and  prelude  of  that 
home  where  no  bonds  shall  be  broken,  and  the  earth- 


128  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

born  jojs  and  hopes  of  our  infant  life  sKall  bloom  in 
everlasting  youth  I 

On  my  return  to  Providence,  August  18th,  he  writes 
that  he  is  unable  to  stay  home  much  longer.  '  How 
'  long,  0,  how  long  must  I  "  live  at  this  poor  dying 
'  rate  I  "  What  is  before  me  ?  —  0,  that  is  the  question  ! 
'  To  live  ?  to  die  ?  Well,  well,  —  peace,  peace,  and  take 
'  it  as  it  comes.  I  am  good  for  nothing  as  I  now  am, 
'  and  my  imagination  does  not  extend  forward  to  the  day 
*when  I  shall  be.  I  dare  not  anticipate.'  This,  how- 
ever, is  the  only  sad  strain  in  the  whole  sheet,  which  he 
spices  with  much  blunt  and  grotesque  common  sense. 
He  now  spends  a  few  days  with  his  sister  Huldah,  in 
New  York ;  and  then  makes  a  home  at  his  brother's,  in 
Jersey  city,  where  every  kindness  and  indulgence  are 
granted.  August  28th,  he  writes  with  usual  spirit. 
Speaking  of  hospitality  he  says,  '  I  suppose  I  am  dealt 
'  with  better  than  I  deserve,  being  nothing  but  a  fault- 
*  finding,  growling,  grumbling  dyspeptic.  But  my  friends 
'  must  bear  with  me,  and  pity  my  infirmities.'  At  the 
next  date,  September  1st,  he  writes  in  about  the  same 
spirit.  September  18th,  dates  from  the  old  home  again. 
He  has  found  an  old  mutual  friend,  Mr.  T,  W.  Bull, 
who  affords  much  social  cheer,  and  talks  of  travelling 
with  him.  But  he  has  'sorry  times,'  and  says  the 
'  excessive  heat  has  been  frying  him  nearly  all  away.' 

Now,  farewell  to  the  old  home,  with  its  dear  scenes 
and  friends,  —  forever !  A  hard  journey  brings  him  to 
Providence.  He  confers  with  Dr.  McKnight,  who  tries 
to  encourage  him,  as  we  all  do,  but  with  no  impression 
on  him  for  the  better.     His   hopes   are  fast  looking 


GEORGE   HENllY   CLARK.  129 

beyond  mortal  ills,  and  he  grows  more  solemnly  silent 
with  thoughts  that  roll  on  towards  eternity.  Yet  he 
has  seasons  of  social  cheer,  and  enjoys  a  dangerous  ap- 
petite. But  now  he  is  for  Lawrence  again,  the  well- 
tried  home  of  later  years.    October  3d,  he  writes,  '  Home 

*  again,  —  and  I  tell  you  I  am  glad  to  be  here.  I  was 
'  expected,  welcomed  with  open  hands  and  warm  hearts, 

*  —  room  all  ready,  and  hosts  of  friends  soon  poured  in 
'  to  see  me.     Lawrence  is  the  place  for  me.' 

Some  of  his  friends  at  this  time  entertained  sanguine 
hopes  of  his  convalescence,  and  the  Boston  Trumpet 
contained  a  notice  to  this  effect ;  but  George's  hopes 
were  looking  more  and  more  beyond  all  mortal  ills,  not- 
withstanding certain  improvements.  His  society  was 
now  prospering  again,  and  had  just  settled  the  Rev.  H. 
Jewell  as  pastor,  a  successor  in  whom  George  found  a 
brother  ever  respondent  with  service  and  sympathy,  as 
also  in  Rev.  Mr.  W^aggoner,  of  Methuen.  Before  a 
society-meeting  of  the  Lawrence  friends,  Mr.  W.  made 
a  touching  appeal  in  behalf  of  their  late  but  now  in- 
valid pastor,  and  told  them  he  had  come  home  to  die  in 
their  midst. 

In  October  we  enjoyed  a  long  visit  in  Lawrence. 
Now  the  foliage  was  colored  in  the  gorgeous  hues  of 
autumn,  the  leaves  were  fast  falling,  and  sad  moaning 
winds  sounded  the  requiem  of  solemn  change.  From 
his  window  he  could  look  out  upon  the  fading  woodland, 
and  sighed  in  wondering  whether  he  should  ever  again 
see  it  clothed  in  verdure,  and  hear  the  melody  of  spring- 
time in  its  boughs.  And  as  the  autumn  moan  deepened, 
he  shivered,  and  shrank  closer  to  the  warm  fire,  thinking 


130  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

of  a  clime  of  celestial  song  and  perennial  springs.  He 
could  now  neither  walk  out  nor  ride  but  little.  We 
rode  once  to  Methuen,  and  spent  the  day  with  Rev.  Mr. 
Waggoner  and  his  lady,  but  he  was  fatigued.  We 
passed  near  the  '  city  of  the  dead '  where  slept  Ella's 
remains,  and  he  pointed  towards  its  shadowy  retreat 
with  a  serene  yet  ominous  smile.  Hour  after  hour,  day 
and  night,  we  sat  in  his  room,  with  long  intervals  of 
silence,  but  now  and  then  broken  with  cheerful  converse 
upon  topics  of  an  ordinary  nature.  Sometimes  he  would 
arouse  himself  with  new  life,  as  I  rallied  his  spirits,  and 
would  talk  of  the  future  like  a  man  of  the  world.  But 
it  was  only  to  please  others ;  and  then  he  would  relapse 
into  silence,  rolling  his  thoughts  beyond  the  world. 
Much  of  the  time  he  passed  in  quiet,  half-dreaming 
slumbers  upon  his  couch,  calm  as  a  pillowed  child. 
Sometimes,  when  friends  called,  he  was  again  himself  in 
social  cheer ;  at  others,  he  was  silent.  The  few  flies  that 
lingered  in  his  warm  room  seemed  nervously  annoying, 
and  he  often  addressed  them  in  most  uncomplimentary 
apostrophes.  Children  had  become  an  innocent  offence, 
and  he  often  regretted  the  annoyance  he  felt  in  their 
presence,  and  his  own  uninviting  appearance  to  them. 

*  See  those  little  youngsters  run,'  said  he,  one  morn- 
ing, as  he  pointed  to  two  small  boys  who  were  trotting 
by  his  window  with  no  laggard  pace,  casting  terrific 
glances  behind.  *  What  makes  them  ? '  I  inquired. 
'  I  don't  know,'  he  replied,  with  a  half-rebuking,  half- 
pitiful  smile,  'unless  they  are  afraid  of  me,  which  I 
'  suspect  is  the  case.  For,  one  morning,  while  they 
'  were  going  by  to  school,  as  they  stopped  to  stare  at  me 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  131 

*  through  the  window,  just  in  sport,  I  made  up  a  comic 

*  face,  and  spoke  ;  at  which  they  took  to  their  heels,  in 

*  fright.     I  expect,  as  somebody  may  have  told  them  I 

*  was  sick  and  dying,  they  think  I  am  a  mere  ghost,  or 

*  some  such  awfully  mysterious  thing ;  and  so,  ever  since 

*  that  morning,  on  their  way  to  school,  they  run  by  the 

*  house,  hand  in  hand,  cantering  away  at  full  speed,  never 

*  daring  to  look  up.' 

He  was  now  able  to  read  but  little,  and  to  write  less. 
He  wrote,  however,  to  his  father,  and  spoke  with  usual 
interest  in  regard  to  himself,  his  friends,  and  affairs  in 
Cross  River,  and  especially  in  counsel  relating  to  his 
half-brothers  Lewis  and  Joseph.  His  last  letter  to  the 
correspondent  of  his  youth  dates  November  23d.  He 
congratulatas  him  on  his  removal  and  settlement  at 
Chicopee,  and  wishes  he  could  spend  Thanksgiving  day 
with  him.  His  health  is  about  the  same,  and  he  is 
under  the  homoeopathic  care  of  Dr.  French,  He  has 
received  warm  encouragement  to  join  his  friend,  Rev. 
A.  Gage,  in  Florida ;  and,  if  able,  does  not  know  but  he 
may  start  with  a  physician  who  contemplates  going 
south.  Alluding  to  a  dear  young  friend  who  had  just 
died  in  Providence,  ho  closes  his  last  letter  with  the 
exclamation,  ^  Poor  Foot !  He  was  a  strong,  noble  fel- 
low.    Yours,  Geo.' 

And  now  no  more  shall  I  break  the  seal  that  clasps 
the  message  signed  by  that  bold  and  brotherly  hand  ! 
'Tis  the  last  message  winged  over  the  earthly  railway !  — 
the  last  link  of  that  golden  chain,  which  reaches  back  to 
childhood,  festooned  with  a  thousand  flowery  memories, 
and  glittering  along  the  whole  line  of  life  with  a  radiance 


132  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

undimmed  by  clouds  and  storms  !  Tis  broken !  Nay, 
nay  !  —  for  one  may  soon  ascend  to  starry  worlds,  and, 
clasping  his  end  of  that  golden  chain  around  the  throne 
of  the  Father,  aloiig  the  telegraphic  line  of  spirit  realms 
waft  celestial  messages  of  love  to  the  dweller  below  ! 

For  several  weeks  George  remained  with  no  material 
change.  He  spent  a  number  of  days  with  Rev.  W. 
Spaulding,  at  West  Haverhill ;  occasionally  went  out  by 
imitation,  and  enjoyed  a  hearty  dinner  with  friends, 
till,  on  the  12th  of  December,  he  was  prostrated  with 
new  and  violent  symptoms  of  his  malady.  While  I  was 
in  the  room  of  an  invalid,  after  a  month's  confinement, 
on  the  17th,  an  alarming  line  came  to  Chicopee,  from 
Rev.  H.  Jewell.  But  G-eorge  had  insisted  upon  adding 
a  postscript,  to  lessen  the  alarm.  I  answered  in  a  full 
sheet  to  George,  endeavoring  to  smooth  his  solemn 
journey,  promising  to  be  with  him  as  early  as  possible, 
and  requested  Mr.  Jewell  to  write  daily,  and  ply  the 
telegraph  in  case  of  emergency.  Sleep,  that  night,  was 
filled  with  shadows  and  di^eams  of  one  afar  off,  who 
might  now  be  seeking  sleep  in  vain,  and  lie  rolling  in 
anguish.  The  next  day  brought  the  telegraphic  sum- 
mons, '  Come  quick  ."  As  I  flew  over  the  iron  track 
at  midnight,  cutting  the  shrill  air  of  a  withering  winter, 
rattling,  dashing  on,  on  with  the  silent,  ghostly  crew 
crowding  the  dimly  lighted  car,  I  thought  of  another 
journey,  and  of  one  flying  over  the  same  iron  track, 
♦  on,  on,  on,'  to  the  far  west,  towards  the  lone  friend 
Charles,  lying  dead  in  a  distant  land  !  —  and  I  trembled 
lest  I  also  might  be  too  late,  —  till,  on  Saturday  morning, 


GEORGE   nENRT    CLARK.  133 

the  20tli,  I  tread  the  threshold  he  shall  walk  no  more, 
and  he  still  lives  I 

He  smiles,  and  is  now  ready  to  die.  He  reaches  out 
that  thin  hand,  whose  grasp  is  still  warm  and  strong. 
He  stretches  forth  his  arm,  —  *  See  there,  —  is  that  my 

*  arm  ?  —  Take   hold  of  it,  —  it  won't   hurt   you.     I 

*  shall  be  thinner  yet.  I  did  not  expect  you  till  Mon- 
*day, — did  not  know  Jewell  had  telegraphed,  —  did 

*  not  want  him  to  do  it ;  —  but  I  'm  glad  you  've  come. 

*  Sit  down  there  ;  I  can't  talk  much,  nor  above  a  whis- 

*  per.     No,  you  needn't  telegraph  to  father  nor  Hosea; 

*  the  journey  may  be  too  much  for  the  old  man.     Should 

*  be  glad  to  see  them ;  but  they  can  do  me  no  good,  — 

*  everything  is  done  for  me.     You  find  me  down  low, 

*  now,  —  a  very  sick  man.     Before  this,  it  was  only  dis- 

*  tress  ;  but,  since  I  have  been  down  this  time,  it  is  pain, 

*  pain,  —  keen,  cutting,  racking,  savage,  life-destroying 

*  pain  ! '  said  he,  compressing  his  lips  with  a  struggle  to 
bear  it  without  a  murmur.  After  I  had  been  with  him 
awhile,  and  we  were  alone,  '  Say,   Uriah,'  said  he,  *  I 

*  want  to  be  with  you  alone,  about  an  hour.     Fasten  both 

*  of  thc^e  doors,  —  admit  no  one.  —  Yes,  I  want  that 

*  fastened  too,  —  you  '11  find  a  nail  there.     Sit  down 

*  here,  close ;  —  give  me  time,  now,  for  I  have  lit- 
*tle  strength.'  And  then  he  communicated  his  last 
wishes.  He  desired  some  little  token  to  be  left  each  of 
his  relatives.  He  spoke  with  an  overflowing  heart  of 
the  many  unwearying  kindnesses  and  labors  of  Mr. 
Tylers  family ;  —  how  dear  little  sister  Frank  was  the 
image  of  his  Ella ;  how  ready  brother  Fred  was  to 
serve  him  ;    how  father  Tyler  had  gone  on  calmly  and 

12 


134  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

patiently  doing  everything;  how  mother  Tyler  had 
been  a  second  mother,  watching  and  weeping  and  wear- 
ing herself  out  for  him  ;  how  devoted  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Wingate,  had  been ;  and  he  wanted  them  all  thanked 
and  richly  rewai^ied.  And  many  others,  too,  he  could 
not  forget ;  —  his  society,  the  Sons  of  Temperance, 
especially  the  Odd  Fellows,  who  watched  over  him,  and 
the  Masons,  with  whose  ancient  rites  he  wished  to  be 
buried.  But  he  was  too  weak,  he  said,  either  to  re- 
member or  specify  all  he  wanted  to  say.  He  woidd 
leave  all  to  the  discretion  of  one  whom  he  had  ever 
trusted. 

I  bade  him  make  no  efibrt  to  talk.  He  would  not, 
could  not.  I  spoke  of  the  Gospel  faith  which  had  borne 
him  through  years  of  toil  and  trial,  and  told  him  I  sup- 
posed his  mind  so  well  settled  that  he  wished  all  to 
understand  he  remained  unchanged,  without  being  ques- 
tioned. '  Yes,  yes,'  he  replied,  '  yon  know.  I  have 
'■  not  put  that  off  to  this  hour  ;  everybody  ought  to  know, 

*  without  my  repeating  it  now.     I  am  not  able.     My 

*  mind  was  made  up,  a  long  time  ago  ;  I  have  thought  it 

*  all  over  and  over,  and  am  the  same.   I  don't  want  any- 

*  body  to  ask  me,  as  though  there  was  a  chance  to  doubt. 
'  I  can't  answer  merely  for  the  sake  of  having  it  to  tell, 

*  —  no  strength.  I  may  think  of  something  else  I  want 
'  to  say,  if  I  am  able,  —  that 's  all,  now.  You  may  go 
'  out  now,  or  stay  here.* 

Thi-ough  this  interview,  and  even  to  the  last,  George 
retained  a  tone  of  mind  peculiar  to  himself,  and  some- 
times surprising  to  strangers.  Sometimes  he  was  taken 
with   humorous   conceits.,     I  was   speaking  of  certain 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  135 

fancies  I  had,  during  late  sickness,  when  George,  smil- 
ing, replied  they  were  just  like  some  of  his.     '  I  have 

*  often  said  to  one  of  my  lungs,  now,  if  you  will  only  take 

*  care  of  yourself,  I  will  look  to  the  other,  and  risk  it.* 
On  the  day  before,  he  held  a  pleasant  conversation,  as 
far  as  able,  with  his  physician,  Dr.  French,  of  the  Bap- 
tist communion.  He  remarked  that  he  had  many 
friends  he  loved  here  on  earth,  and  some  in  heaven; 
and  it  was  immaterial  with  him  which  he  joined,  if 
God's  will  were  done.  Dr.  French  was  impressed  with 
the  happy  calmnass  of  his  spirit. 

As  he  was  unable  to  talk,  on  Saturday  evening  I  sug- 
gested reading  to  him.  He  acceded  with  pleasure ;  and, 
after  I  had  read  an  extract  from  John  Foster,  on  death, 
he  requested  me  to  read  a  favorite  chapter  of  his  on  the 
same  subject,  though  taken  from  an  author  whose  phi- 
losophy, in  general,  he  questioned.  I  read  half  the 
chapter  at  one  sitting,  at  the  end  of  which  he  exclaimed, 

*  Glorious !  glorious  ! '  I  then  spoke  a  few  moments  on 
the  theme,  and  he  gave  smiling  responses.  I  read  the 
remainder  of  the  chapter,  and  he  whispered,  '  Beautiful ! 
beautiful ! '     Now  I  proposed  to  read  from  Mountford's 

*  Euthanasy,'  a  book  he  had  kept  close  by  him  ever 
since  the  death  of  Ella  ;  but  he  was  too  feeble.  It  now 
being  very  near  the  time  of  Ella's  departure,  two  years 
before,  Mrs.  Tyler  reminded  him  of  it.  His  face  lighted 
up  with  a  faint  smile,  and  he  replied,  *  I  shall  go  about 
the  same  time,  but  perhaps  a  little  before.'  During 
Saturday  night,  his  rest  was  better,  and  his  pains  were 
easier.  But  Sunday  morning  found  him  fiiiling  fast. 
The  worship  of  his  people,  that  day,  was  made  more 


136  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

solemn  and  impressive  from  the  shadow  that  seemed 
hovering  around.  Many  friends  poured  in  to  see  him, 
with  muflSed  tread  and  mournful  face,  to  gaze  upon  their 
wan  pastor,  so  calm  and  uncomplaining  in  the  hour  of 
suffering  nature.  But  he  can  speak  to  only  a  few,  and 
then  faintly.  With  me,  however,  he  seems  better  able 
to  talk  than  with  others.  In  the  afternoon,  while  his 
friends  Ilerrick,  Goodwin,  and  some  others,  are  passing 
out  without  his  having  been  able  to  speak  to  them,  he 
called  me  to  his  side,  and  said,  '  Bid  those  gentlemen, 
'  and  all  who  come,  farewell,  for  me ;  tell  them  they  Lave 
'  my  warmest  feelings  and  affections  ;  bid  them,  for  me, 
'an  affectionate  farewell  for  this  world;'  and  then  he 
di'opped  his  head,  exhausted. 

Towards  evening,  he  is  revived  with  a  call  from  his  long 
cherished  friend.  Dr.  Kelley,  of  Worcester,  who,  together 
with  Mi's.  Dr.  Manly,  is  to  watch  through  the  night. 
And  now,  as  Sunday  evening  deepens  into  the  silence  of 
midnight,  the  scene  deepens  with  the  solemnities  of 
death.  Will  another  morning  dawn  upon  him  there  on 
that  couch  of  suffering,  or  upon  a  soul  }?athed  in  the 
light  of  an  everlasting  day  ?  An  hour  after  midnight, 
as  I  was  about  retiring,  a  messenger  came  quick,  saying 
George  had  called.  I  hurried  to  his  side.  He  had  no 
message,  but  wanted  to  feel  my  presence.  I  took  his 
hand  ;  it  was  growing  cold.  Now  and  then  his  agonies 
were  intense,  and  he  sent  forth  a  long,  loud,  deep  groan 
of  prayer,  —  '  0,  God  ! '  and  that  was  all.  It  was 
enough.  It  told  all  he  suffered,  all  he  trusted,  all  he 
prayed  for,  all  he  hoped  !  Anon  he  looked  around  upon 
those  who  stood  by,  as  though  imploring  help  to  breathe, 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  137 

to  bear,  to  suffer,  to  hope ;  but,  finding  himself  alone, 
alone  with  the  Father,  in  that  awful  hour,  he  would  then 
turn  his  eyes  heavenward,  with  clasped  hands,  repeat- 
ing, '  0,  God  ! '  I  asked  him  if  he  desired  me  to  say 
to  his  father,  brothers,  and  all  his  friends,  that  he  held 
strong-,  to  the  end,  in  the  same  faith  and  hope  he  had 
preached ;  and  he  answered,  *  Yes,  yes  ! '  Soon  after, 
he  raised  his  arms  from  the  bed,  and,  in  his  natural, 
earnest  tone,  said,  '  I  tell  you  what,  those  hands  are 
growing  cold,  without  joking ! '  He  spoke  as  though  it 
seemed  more  odd  than  alarming.  I  told  him  to  let  his 
hands  go,  and  try  to  think  nothing  of  his  crumbling 
body,  but  feel,  with  Paul,  that,  though  the  earthly  tab- 
ernacle were  dissolved,  there  was  a  building  of  God, 
eternal  in  the  heavens ;  to  remember  that  He  who 
tasted  death  for.  us  all,  who  was  made  perfect  through 
suffering,  who  calmly  commended  his  spirit  to  the 
Father,  was  there  with  him,  and  ready  to  welcome  him 
home,  where  all  would  soon  be  reconciled.  '  0,  yes, 
yes  ! '  he  replied,  with  a  beaming  face.  Then  stretching 
out  his  long,  transparent  arms,  and  rolling  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  as  though  catching  a  ray  of  celestial  light  and 
hope,  he  cried  out,  '  0  God,  I  am  soon  going  home  ! ' 

Shortly  after  this,  he  wished  to  be  turned  over  ;  and 
Mrs.  Tyler  and  Manly  began,  stopping  to  give  him  rest, 
as  he  was  over  only  half  way.  Wondering  why  they 
stopped,  he  looked  up,  and  coolly  inquired,  '  Well,  have 
you  given  it  up  ? '  He  would  be  himself  to  the  last. 
But  now  the  hour  is  hastening,  and  consciousness  of 
the  last  great  change  is  fast  stealing  over  him.  He 
calls  the  family  group  around  him.  Mother  and  sister 
12# 


138  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

Tyler,  Mrs.  Wingate,  Mrs.  Manly,  one  by  one,  he 
takes  by  the  hand,  with  his  arms  round  their  necks, 
draws  them  near,  and  seals  the  solemn  farewell,  with 
his  now  trembling  lips.  And  then  the  hand  of  father 
and  Frederick  Tyler,  and  the  last  adieu.  He  and  I  had 
oft  parted,  during  our  wanderings  through  the  world, 
and  oft  parted  in  silence,  —  parted  to  meet  not,  perhaps, 
for  mouths,  or  years,  —  parted  with  no  grasp  of  hands, 
no  moui'nful  farewells,  no  words  to  mock  the  emotions 
of  the  soul,  no  forms  to  express  what  heart  spoke  to 
heart  in  silence.  And  thus  we  part  now,  —  in  silence, 
the  silence  of  death!  We  all  stand  in  the  solemn 
presence  of  the  last  Messenger ;  but  his  bow  seems 
broken,  his  barb  blunted,  his  victory  despoiled.  All  is 
still,  save  bosoms  beating  with  anguish  over  the  serene 
sufferer,  whose  soul  has  now  lost  all  consciousness  of  a 
receding  world,  is  fast  ebbing  from  that  perishable 
fabric,  and  pouring  itself  out  into  the  immeasurable 
realms  of  eternity.  He  heeds  not  the  loved  circle, 
that  stands  watching  and  weeping  around;  for  his 
visions  are  of  the  beatified  in  heaven,  who  hover 
over,  on  angels'  wings,  to  waft  him  home.  And  hark  ! 
hear  we  not  their  melody,  mingling  with  the  fluting 
tones  of  the  long-loved  Ella !  No ;  it  is  but  the  low, 
soft  breath  of  the  departing  spirit.  And  now  it  comes 
more  gently,  softly  and  low.  Wait,  wait,  0  thou 
child  of  suffering  years,  and  soon  thy  chastened  life  shall 
suffer  no  more  !  No  more,  no  more !  for,  even  now, 
without  groan  or  murmur,  the  travail  of  thy  celestial 
birth  is  over ! 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  139 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

OBSEQUIES. GENERAL    ANALYSIS.  —  THE    DREAM    REAL- 
IZED. 

And  now  we  would  say  of  him,  as  he  said  of  Ella, 
—  '  He  slept  well  last  night ! '  On  his  pale,  cold  face, 
comes  back  the  smile  of  happier  years,  —  that  smile 
which  the  death-angel  seems  to  have  painted  there,  as  a 
symbol  of  the  happier  world,  whither  he  has  gone.  It 
was  ten  minutes  past  three,  in  the  morning  of  Decem- 
ber 22d,  1851,  he  died  to  mortality,  rejoining  his 
companion  within  three  days  from  the  date  of  her 
departure,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty  years,  one  month, 
twenty-two  days.  His  final  malady  was  tubercular 
phthisis.  But  the  funeral  hour  draws  near,  and  the  bier 
stands  at  the  door,  to  be  followed  by  a  long  procession  of 
faithful  brothers,  Masons,  Odd  Fellows,  Sons,  Cadets, 
and  members  of  his  society,  led  by  a  band,  playing  a 
mournful  march.  Snow-drifts  are  gathering  deep  and 
fast,  and  the  storm  beats  down  bitter  with  cold,  and 
blinding  with  flakes ;  but  warm  hearts  heed  it  not,  and 
he  no  more  feels  the  biting  blasts  he  once  dreaded,  and 
the  blasts  that  swept  away  his  beloved.  The  large  Cal- 
vin Baptist  church  seats  the  subdued  audience ;  the 
Throne  is  addressed  by  Bev.  Mr.  Harrington,  the  Uni- 


140  LIFE-SKETCnES    OP 

tarian  pastor,  and  a  co-laboring  brother  and  friend  of 
the  departed;  the  gladsome  theme  of  a  better  life, 
through  the  risen  Redeemer,  is  eloquently  discoursed 
on  by  Rev.  T.  B.  Thayer,  of  Lowell ;  home-sent  ad- 
dresses to  the  bereaved  are  appropriately  proffered  by 
Rev.  H.  Jewell ;  the  fraternities  and  friends  are  touch- 
ingly  thanked  by  Rev.  Mr.  Harrington ;  the  moving 
funeral  prayer  is  made  by  Rev.  W.  H,  Waggoner  ;  the 
choir  lifts  its  solemn  anthem ;  the  Sons  pay  their  last 
rites  to  their  brother;  the  long  train  moves  towards 
the  '  city  of  the  dead  ; '  the  Masons  discharge  their  final 
duty ;  '  dust  to  dust '  beneath  that  shady  tree,  now  bend- 
ing with  snow-blooms,  where  the  marble  tells  of  the 
loved  Ella ;  the  evergreens  drop  gently  upon  the  frame 
of  a  soul  gone  to  blossom  in  a  perennial  land ;  the  long 
train  returns ;  '  the  mourners  go  about  the  streets,'  and 
then  retire  to  their  warm  homes,  thinking  of  the  fresh- 
made  graves  up  there  in  the  lone  woods,  over  which  the 
winds  may  sweep,  the  storms  break,  the  thunders  roll, 
and  the  sun  shine,  but  to  call  back  the  reunited  pair  no 
more. 

But  the  funeral  forms  are  over,  business  is  de- 
spatched, and  I  am  home,' unpacking  the  stored  treas- 
ures of  toiling  years.  All  is  before  me.  That  little 
purse  of  golden  coin  he  earned  with  his  blood,  and 
which  he  knew  not  how  or  where  to  keep  in  his  sick- 
ness ;  those  files  of  bills,  letters,  scraps,  notes,  running 
far  back ;  those  large  packages  of  sermons ;  those  gar- 
ments he  wore,  and  that  regalia  of  ofiice ;  those  well- 
balanced  ledgers,  leaving  him  square  with  the  world, 
and  memoranda  of  labors,  marriages,  discourses ;   those 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  141 

thousands  of  pages  of  diar j,  embracing  the  memories  of 
twelve  long  years  of  incessant  change ;  those  volumes 
of  his  choice ;  those  memorials  of  Charles,  now  trans- 
mitted again ;  those  numerous  little  things,  trivial,  but 
dear;  that  staff  upon  which  he  leaned  towards  the 
grave ;  this  secretary  of  his  pride,  over  which  he  bent 
till  '  the  silver  cord  was  broken ; '  —  all,  all  is  here !  And 
now,  reader,  for  a  moment  suffer  me  to  pause  amid  the 
rush  of  overwhelming  emotions.  But  no,  no !  0, 
heart,  be  still,  and  let  me  on  with  my  task !  Hence- 
forth be  this  life  like  the  bosom  of  a  clear,  calm  stream, 
ever  reflecting  that  new  star,  added  to  the  constellations 
of  Heaven. 

In  the  life  and  character  of  George  Henry  Clark, 
we  have  an  illustration  of  the  moral  force  of  a  true 
Christianity,  in  contrast  with  opposing  creeds.  While 
in  boyhood  and  youth,  and  even  while  in  membership 
with  the  Methodist  church,  there  were  certain  wild  and 
wayward  tendencies  in  his  nature,  which  the  better  Gos- 
pel at  last  overcame.  There  was  one  period,  however,  — 
a  period  dangerous  to  all,  —  during  his  transition  from 
the  old  to  the  new  religion,  when  a  great  moral  conflict 
was  endured.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  throw 
off  the  old  motive  of  fear,  and  feel  that  love,  duty,  prin- 
ciple, virtue,  were  their  own  motive  and  reward,  with- 
out the  dread  of  a  frightful  doom,  or  the  hope  of  a  self- 
ish heaven.  But  he  passed  the  ordeal,  and  became 
transformed  in  the  new  image  of  Christ. 

As  a  student,  he  found  '  sermons  in  stones,  books  in 
the  running  brooks,  and  good  in  everything.'  He  was 
too  active  and  practical  to  become  a  voluminous  reader. 


142  LIPE-SKETCHES   OP 

Yet,  whatever  he  attempted  was  readily  mustered  into 
his  service.  As  a  teacher,  he  ventured  into  whatever 
branches  his  pupils  desired  to  study,  whether  science, 
philosophy,  higher  mathematics,  or  the  languages,  and  was 
seldom  staggered.  His  '  Select  Academy '  affords  an 
example  of  his  pedantic  daring,  rising  as  it  did  in  the 
midst  of  a  large,  intelligent  village,  and  along  side  of 
Canandaigua  Academy.  Yet  he  carried  it  through, 
and  finally  took  a  high  place  in  Canandaigua.  Before 
he  finished  teaching,  he  received  nine  certificates  of 
commendation,  and  in  several  educational  associations  he 
was  called  to  take  active  parts,  and  assume  eligible 
positions. 

His  favorite  books  were  the  Bible  and  Shakspeare, 
copies  of  which  were  usually  by  his  side,  at  home  and 
abroad.  He  was  charmed  ^-ith  the  bard  of  Avon,  and 
was  able  to  give  some  striking  delineations  of  his  char- 
acters. I  remember  an  occasion,  in  a  private  circle, 
when  he  enacted  the  tent-scene  in  Richard  III.,  in  a 
manner  to  move  even  a  dramatic  author  and  student 
who  were  present.  Since  his  departure,  a  dear  friend, 
who  often  used 

'  To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn,' 

has  sent,  begging  of  me,  as  a  memorial,  that  favorite  old 
copy  of  Shakspeare  George  always  had  by  his  side.  He 
seldom  labored  through  large  works  of  dry,  dogmatic 
theology,  his  library  in  this  department  extending  but 
little  beyond  Dr.  Clarke,  and  a  few  reference  books. 
The   publications   of  his  own  denomination,  however, 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  143 

were  readily  digested,  the  best  of  which  always  stood 
next  to  the  Bible,  while  he  was  thirsting  for  more  read- 
ing like  that  afforded  by  the  Universalist  Quarterly. 
Among  the  favorite  authors  on  his  humble  shelf  were 
Channing,  Dewey,  Mountford,  Macaulay,  Dickens,  Cer- 
vantes, Burns,  Hudson  on  Shakspeare,  Mrs.  Child,  Tup- 
per's  Proverbial  Philosophy,  Giles,  Hume,  Lacon  and 
Goldsmith.  Byron  he  loved  with  a  kind  of  hateful 
shudder.  He  read  Consuelo  with  intense  interest ;  yet 
he  questioned  .its  tendency  on  his  own  mind,  notwith- 
standing the  high  tone  breathing  through  the  whole. 
He  attempted  to  peruse  two  of  Sue's  largest  works ;  but, 
in  the  end,  grew  vexed  both  with  Sue  and  himself  In 
hours  of  relaxation,  and  while  in  the  cars,  he  sometimes 
glanced  over  cheap  novellette  literature,  but  found  little 
to  satisfy  him.  Towards  the  last,  he  tried  to  balance 
his  mind  by  reading  lighter  works,  seemingly  calculated 
to  excite  his  sickly  and  cooling  senses,  and  bring  him 
down  to  the  world.  But  all  was  of  no  avail ;  his 
spiritual  nature,  chastened  and  elevated  by  suffering, 
refused  to  come  down,  but  clove  to  the  skies. 

As  a  writer,  he  published  but  little,  except  what 
appeared  prematurely.  His  fourteen  '  Rambles  about 
Town,'  in  Canandaigua,  signed  'Peter  Peregrin,'  em- 
braced some  pithy  points,  and  called  out  some  close 
poetic  sparring  between  '  Peter '  and  an  anonymous 
writer,  signed  '  Sally  Ann ; '  but,  in  after  years,  he 
made  no  boast  of  them  ;  neither  of  nine  '  Scraps,'  signed 
*  Jicks,'  published  at  Lockport.  Among  effusions  early 
printed,  are  several  in  verse,  entitled,  *  Death  of  a 
Sister,'    'To   my   Father,'    'Death  of   a   Pupil,'   'A 


144  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

Mother's  Care,'  sliowing  more  heart  than  hand  for 
poetry.  Like  many  other  well-meaning  boys  and  men, 
who  never  left  their  names  on  the  scroll  of  poetic  fame, 
he  was  sometimes  seized  with  a  rhyming  fever. 

In  an  early  scrap-book,  he  speaks  of  his  first  and  his 
subsequent  attempts  at  poetizing  in  no  very  compliment- 
ary strain.  Yet  he  filled  a  large  volume  with  those 
rhyming  effusions,  which  are  so  common  to  youthful 
minds,  with  efiervescent  imagination,  longing  to  pour 
out  their  innermost  emotions,  but  seeking  in  vain  for 
suitable  expression.  He  often  wrote  with  a  heart  sur- 
charged too  intensely  for  suppression.  In  after  years  he 
became  so  deeply  conscious  of  his  impotence  in  endeavor- 
ing to  give  a  full  and  true  utterance  to  his  soul,  he 
would  rather  have  destroyed  every  fragment  of  his  early 
efforts  than  allowed  any  of  them  to  pass  into  other 
hands,  especially  fragments  dignified  with  the  name  of 
poetry. 

This  gives  an  idea  of  the  estimation  in  which  he  held 
his  poetic  genius,  and  may  likewise  speak  for  many  others 
in  the  same  line.  Among  the  miscellaneous  manuscripts 
of  any  merit,  reaching  back  to  his  earliest  appearance  in 
public,  are  the  '  Yankee  and  Duellist,'  a  comedy,  played 
at  Clinton,  and  thought  by  seme  to  have  equalled  any- 
thing produced  there  during  the  season,  even  by  Hamil- 
ton College;  '  Slavery,'  in  verse;  '  Sublime  and  Kidicu- 
lous,'  and  '  My  Mother,'  papers  read  before  the  '  Society 
of  Rhetorical  Brethren  ;'  '  Human  Life,'  an  address  at 
Clinton ;  five  lectures  before  dijGFerent  associations,  lit- 
erary and  reformatory ;  one  Fourth  of  July  Oration ; 
one  lecture  to  Cadets  and  eight  lectures  to  the  Sons  of 


GEORGE  UEXRY  CLARK.  145 

Temperance  ;  one  to  Odd  Fellows  ;  and  one  rhythmical 
address  at  the  dedication  of  a  Sons  of  Temperance  Hall, 
at  Lawrence,  January,  1851,  —  a  paper  that  cost  him 
some  of  his  last  days. 

His  first  sermon  was  written  in  Clinton,  July,  1843; 
and  his  last,  an  annual  sermon,  in  Lawrence,  May, 
1851.  During  the  five  years  previous  to  his  settlement 
in  Lockport,  he  was  able  to  write  but  little,  —  his  ser- 
mons not  exceeding  a  dozen.  He  was  actively  engaged 
in  the  ministry  only  four  years  and  a  half,  six  months 
of  which  were  spent  in  Lockjwrt,  and  nearly  four  years 
in  Lawrence.  During  his  entire  ministry,  he  solem- 
nized sixty-two  marriages,  wrote  out  in  full  two  hundred 
and  ninety-three  sermons,  left  undestroyed  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty ;  preached  five  hundred  and  thirty- 
two  times,  in  forty-nine  difierent  places,  in  seven  States 
of  the  Union,  and  travelled  nine  thousand  eight  hundred 
miles.  Among  his  favorite  sermons  were  those  on 
'  Love  and  Obedience,'  '  Immortality,'  <  Faith  Dead 
without  Works,'  '  Lessons  of  the  Storm,'  '  A  Merry 
Heart,'  '  Inseparable  Love  of  God,'  '  Reiinion  of 
Friends,'  '  Mission  of  Trials,'  '  Eleventh  Command- 
ment,' '  Head  and  Heart,'  '  Going  to  Heaven  without 
Friends,'  and,  nearly  the  last  he  wrote,  '  God  all  in  all.' 
The  great  body  of  sermons  he  left  shows  him  to  have 
been  a  rapid  writer,  usually  finishing  an  ordinary  ser- 
mon a  day.  Latterly,  however,  he  was  more  slow  and 
cautious,  growing  ashamed  of  his  hasty  efforts.  He 
almost  literally  wrote  himself  to  death,  constantly 
impairing  the  powers  of  speech,  as  in  the  case  of  most 
13 


146  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

clergymen  confined  to  manuscript.  Nature  gave  him  all 
the  elements  of  an  orator  :  a  tall,  commanding  personage ; 
a  sharp,  detective  eye  ;  an  active,  enthusiastic  tempera- 
ment ;  a  warm  heart,  ever  with  the  people ;  an  inde- 
pendent spirit ;  a  quick  imagination  ;  a  ready  percep- 
tion of  the  grand,  the  solemn,  the  ludicrous,  the 
pathetic ;  a  deep,  tremulous  voice,  capable  of  touching 
every  chord  in  humanity ;  and,  had  he  enjoyed  early 
aiDpropriate  culture,  trained  himself  to  extempore  efibrts, 
and  retained  his  native  strength,  his  success  might  have 
been  eminent.  But  he  was  constantly  enfeebled,  crip- 
pled, embarrassed,  by  the  arts,  the  drudgeries,  the  criti- 
cisms and  conventionalities,  of  professional  life;  and, 
though  he  reached  a  mark  once  far  beyond  the  dreams 
of  his  ambition,  though  he  received  the  grateful  plaudits 
of  many  admiring  friends,  though  he  left  behind  him  a 
rich  harvest-field  sown  amid  toils  and  tears,  yet  he  fell 
in  his  prime,  leaving  a  name  neither  great  nor  yet 
inglorious  to  those  who  knew  him  nearest. 

As  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  his  reverence  for  the 
Bible  was  uncompromising,  though  he  interpreted  it 
in  the  light  of  a  liberal  school.  He  forsook  its  solemn 
and  authoritative  sanctions  in  search  of  no  superior 
revelations  ;  for  he  believed  Christianity,  with  its  great 
doctrines  and  miracles,  an  epitome  of  all  that  man 
needed  to  guide  him  in  faith,  hope  and  duty.  His  ser- 
mons were  usually  less  dogmatic  than  practical,  less 
logical  than  declamatory,  less  argumentative  than 
aphoristic  and  home-thrust.  He  never  became  lost  in 
the  regions  of  speculation.  If  he  ever  soared,  it  was 
on  the   wings  of  imagination,  —  wings   sometimes  in 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  147 

danger  of  carr3ring  him  and  his  hearers  to  heights  of 
uncomfortable,  and  perhaps  questionable  grandeur.  He 
often  rambled  wild  in  the  fields  of  illustration ;  and,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  occasionally  mistook  plain 
weeds  for  flowers,  though  not  always.  He  had  but 
little  patience  with  long  logical  processes,  but  preferred 
leaping  to  conclusions,  though  sometimes  in  danger  of 
leaping  amiss.  His  sentences  were  often  long,  verbose, 
and  filled  with  adjectives,  as  well  as  tautologies ;  while 
at  others  they  were  remarkably  short,  sententious,  pun- 
gent, expressive,  and  ending  with  a  sharp  snap.  When 
he  felt  most,  he  used  the  fewest  words  to  express  him- 
self, as  seen  in  extracts  from  his  diary.  He  seldom 
preached  a  sermon  without  having  some  keen  strokes, 
that  came  directly  to  the  point,  and  made  the  hearer  feel 
that  the  matter  was  disposed  of  without  further  words. 
He  was  pointedly  practical  in  his  preaching;  now 
scourging  sin  till  its  victims  fairly  smarted,  —  then  pour- 
ing on  the  oil  of  merey ;  now  heating  and  hammering 
the  conscience,  till  fiery  points  sparkled  and  burned 
with  remorse,  —  then  cooling  it  in  the  river  of  life ;  now 
whipping  the  souls  of  laggard  saints  till  they  grew  almost 
aghast  at  their  delinquencies,  —  then  cheering  them 
on  with  new  hopes ;  now  unbarring  the  gates  of  a  fabu- 
lous hell,  till  the  flames  seemed  singing  the  very  seats,  — 
then  quenching  them  with  streams  of  overflowing  grace. 
He  never  compromised  the  dignity  of  the  pulpit  by 
indulging  in  any  conscious  witticisms.  While  standing 
in  the  sacred  desk,  he  felt  himself  environed  by  sancti- 
ties the  most  solemn  and  sublime.  He  preached  more 
to  the  heart  than  the  intellect.     Whatever  defects  a 


148  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

cold  intellectual  criticism  might  detect  in  his  efforts 
were  more  than  compensated  by  the  warm  and  earnest 
gushings  of  tho  frank  and  feeling  heart  he  poured  out 
in  grateful  confidence.  His  expanding  soul  embraced 
all  before  him^  and  he  wanted  to  tell  them  how  much 
he  felty  loved,  thought,  and  labored  for  them.  He 
would  go  home  from  his  pulpit,  and  sit  down  and 
think  over  what  he  had  preached,  and  how  eager  all 
were  in  hearing,  and  what  the  result  might  be ;  then, 
feeling  how  poor  and  weak  he  was,  would  weep  and 
pray,  —  and,  with  all  that  touching  scene  before  him, 
begin  another  sermon,  and  writ^,  write,  write  on,  tiU  it 
was  done,  till  his  brow  burned,  his  limbs  ached  and 
trembled.  Then,  while  that  scene  was  still  before  him, 
and  the  people  all  sat  waiting,  he  would  start  again,  and 
again  stand  before  them,  trying  to  pour  out  his  heart. 
And  from  what  a  heart  did  he  preach  !  It  was  stored 
with  the  memories,  the  joys,  the  sorrows,  the  trials,  the 
Lopes,  the  fears,  of  an  experience  going  far  back,  through 
innumerable  scenes,  to  the  time  when  a  dear  mother 
died,  and  left  him  sobbing  over  the  orphanage  of  a  lone 
world. 

He  knew  not  how  to  conceal  or  compromise  the  dis- 
tinguishing principles  of  Universalism,  in  contrast  with 
opposing  creeds.  No  hearer  sat  long  under  his  minis- 
try without  learning  that  he  had  an  earnest  dislike  of 
limitarian  theology  in  all  its  forms,  and  a  more  earnest 
love  for  the  Gospel  of  illimitable  mercy,  though  he  sel- 
dom touched  upon  either  in  a  manner  to  offend  or  repel 
conviction.  He  labored  less  at  the  direct  demolition  of 
opposing  dogmas,  than  he  did  in  asserting,  in  a  positive 


GEOEGE  HENRY  CLARK.  149 

manner,  the  claims  of  Christianity  as  a  constructive 
religion,  designed  to  quicken  the  heart  with  piety,  and 
adorn  the  life  with  deeds  of  love  and  duty.  As  a 
reformer,  he  was  mild  and  conservative,  never  handling 
venerated  prejudices  with  offensive  roughness,  nor  yet 
passing  them  over  in  silence ;  never  dealing  in  mere 
abstractions,  yet  applying  the  principles  of  a  benevolence 
broad  enough  to  embrace  both  the  offending  and  the 
offended,  the  oppressor  and  the  oppressed,  the  wronger 
and  the  wronged.  The  sermons  he  left  behind  cover 
over  all  the  ground  of  Christianity, —  doctrinal,  practi- 
cal, spiritual,  progressive,  consolatory,  —  embodying  a 
range  of  thought  and  labor  sufficient  for  the  mission  of 
a  longer  life  than  was  his.  His  labors  in  Lawrence, 
iike  his  life,  were  cut  off  in  their  prime,  ere  either  he  or 
his  people  had  reaped  their  richest  reward,  and  just  as 
the  harvest-field  seemed  most  ripe  for  the  reapers.  He 
grew  up  with  the  society,  and  with  tbe  town  itself,  till 
Lawrence  swelled  to  a  population  exceeding  ten  thou- 
sand, adorned  with  numerous  magnificent  buildings,  pri- 
vate and  public,  among  the  latter  of  which  he  had  long 
labored  to  see  one  temple  reared  to  the  impartial 
Father. 

As  a  friend  and  companion,  George  was  warm,  gen- 
ial, free,  frank,  cheerful,  and  confiding.  There  was  a 
home-like  and  fiimiliar  atmosphere  around  him,  which 
made  those  who  sought  his  society  feel  at  ease,  and  as 
though  they  were  in  the  presence  of  one  whom  they 
eould  trust,  and  who  trusted  them.  There  was  no  sly, 
cold,  critical  or  suspicious  side  glance  ;  but  a  straight- 
forward look,  —  an  open^  speaking  face,  —  a  warm 
13=^ 


150  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

shake  of  the  hand,  —  a  smile  which  spoke  of  beneyo* 
lence  and  confidence,  and  a  hearty  how-do-you-do,  which 
had  the  air  of  the  friend  and  gentleman  combined. 
Once  in  sympathy  with  him,  you  soon  forgot  his 
faults ;  and  if  he  saw  youi's,  you  had  no  fear  of  having 
them  passed  over  to  your  face,  and  then  babbled  as 
soon  as  your  back  was  tui^ned,  for  he  told  you  right  out 
in  your  presence ;  and,  though  his  bluntness  was  half 
startling  and  half  offensive,  at  first,  somehow  you  soon 
got  over  it,  and  laughed  at  his  humorous  impudence. 
If  you  wished  him  to  divert  you,  to  join  you  in  a  laugh 
or  an  anecdote,  or  even  to  weep  with  you,  he  was  ready; 
but  he  had  no  long  tale  of  woe  about  himself  to  harrow 
you' with.  He  told  that  tale  in  his  diary,  and  to  his 
God.  If  he  walked  into  yom*  house,  he  was  at  home, 
whether  be  wanted  a  seat,  a  cup  of  water,  or  a  crust ; 
and  he  seemed  so  cool  and  self-possessed,  you  fancied 
him  a  gentlemanly  son  of  your  own  family.  He  was 
too  frank  and  impolitic  to  be  without  some  enemies,  but 
he  had  enough  warm  friends  to  compensate ;  and  his 
friends,  he  believed,  were  no  half-way  folks,  but  whole- 
souled,  and  a  little  better  than  any  that  could  be  found 
elsewhere,  so  fond  and  confiding  were  his  conceits.  And 
such  friends  he  claimed  among  his  own  people  at  Law- 
rence. I  rememl)er  more  than  a  score  of  dear  names 
which  grew  familiar  only  from  hearing  him  so  often 
repeat  them.  So  strong  were  liis  attachments  to  Law- 
renc-e,  that  he  felt  this  was  the  only  place  in  which  he 
could  die  in  peace.  Here  he  could  lean  upon  those 
whom  he  had  tried  and  trusted  for  years,  and  on  their 
bosoms  close  his  eyes  serenely.     How  touching  was  the 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  151 

confidence  he  poured  out,  and  how  keen  the  sympathy- 
awakened  in  those  who  saw  him,  day  after  day,  droop- 
ing around,  pining,  suffering,  and  sometimes  groaning 
with  distresses  he  could  never  describe,  yet  bearing  all 
with  trust  in  God  and  in  those  he  loved  !  Those  who 
saw  him  in  their  homes,  during  his  last  days,  will  long 
remember  how  he  drooped  around,  like  a  sick  and  weary 
child,  —  0,  how  weary  !  and  calling  for  whatever  little 
comfort  he  needed,  with  no  thought  of  over  being 
denied,  and  yet  ever  murmuring  the  gratitude  of  a 
plaintive  heart,  too  full  to  express  all  he  felt. 

In  circles  of  ministering  brethren  he  was  usually 
silent  and  reserved,  unless  on  familiar  terms  with  most 
who  were  present.  If  he  spoke,  his  words  were  few, 
but  apt.  He  preferred  to  take  no  secondary  part  in 
deliberations  he  was  willing  to  trust  to  seniors  and 
superiors.  Though  he  enjoyed  a  friendly  relation  with 
many  of  the  large  circle  of  Christian  brethren  in  east- 
ern New  England,  yet  he  kept  his  counsels  with  a  few 
chosen  spirits,  who  were  all  in  all,  and  whose  names 
have  already  appeared  in  these  pages. 

Fuller  says  of  Ben  Jonson,  that  while  in  the  com- 
pany of  superior  minds,  he  usually  sat  silent,  observing 
and  studious.  This  may  suggest  a  striking  trait  in  the 
life  and  character  sketched  in  these  pages.  However 
active  and  efficient  he  might  be  where  duty  called  or 
propriety  allowed,  however  commanding  and  officious, 
he  was  seldom  guilty  of  thrusting  himself  forward  with 
an  air  of  personal  consequence.  He  knew  his  own 
sphere,  and  never  immodestly  sought  to  palm  himself 
off  as  though  belonging  to  a  higher  and  greater.     He 


152  LIFE-SKETCHES  OF 

was  too  independent  to  renounce  his  own  individuality  in 
playing  a  game  of  policy  and  pretence ;  and  he  held  in 
hearty  contempt  everything  that  savored,  in  the  least, 
of  such  a  course.  His  self-confidence,  and  his  capacity 
to  read  human  character,  were  such,  however  humble 
his  sphere,  while  in  the  society  of  leading  minds  he 
usually  remained  in  the  backgi'ound,  —  unostentatious, 
quietly  composed,  unenvious,  and  sometimes,  perhaps, 
indulging  in  criticisms,  of  a  humorous  or  sarcastic  na- 
ture, on  the  vanity  of  those  who  seemed  more  than  they 
really  icere.  He  was  generally  a  model  of  an  unobtru- 
sive young  clergyman,  to  follow  which,  some  young  men 
might  improve  their  manners,  and  add  to  their  merit  in 
the  estimation  of  acute  observers.  In  the  professional 
gatherings  of  Cornhil],  he  was  seldom  seen  elbowing  his 
way,  with  important  aire,  to  become  identified  with 
those  who  held  the  first  rank ;  and  seldom  heard  recount- 
ing any  wonderful  achievements  he  had  made.  Yet, 
however  quiet  or  unobtrusive,  his  presence  was  felt  as 
congenial ;  and  the  few  words  he  spoke,  accompanied 
with  a  deep,  subdued  tone  of  voice,  an  open  smile,  a 
strong  gi'asp  of  the  hand,  and  a  certciin  dignified  bland- 
ness  of  mannei*s,  were  well  calculated  to  leave  an  im- 
pression of  the  man  lasting  beyond  the  passing  hour. 
His  bearing  was  similar  at  denominational  associations 
and  conventions.  If  he  was  ever  seen  or  heard  in  front, 
it  was  because  he  was  called  out,  and  not  because  he 
had  put  himself  in  the  way.  Neither  in  the  council 
nor  conference  was  he  the  man  to  be  always  ready  to 
spring  to  his  feet,  whenever  an  opportunity  offered, 
whether  he  stood  in  the  way  of  others  who  could  better 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  153 

fill  the  place  or  not.  It  was  never  his  either  to  stride 
his  way  forward  to  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the 
congregation,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and  speaking,  to 
every  third  person,  as  he  went,  to  make  a  display  of  his 
extensive  acquaintance  before  the  whole  congregation ; 
or,  when  forward,  to  molest  the  passing  services  by 
attempting  to  exhibit  his  critical  sagacity,  in  making 
smiles  and  afl&rmative  nods  to  his  neighbors.  And 
whenever  he  saw  any  of  these  things  in  brethren  of  his 
own  age,  he  wanted  the  opportunity  of  expressing  his 
insidted  sentiments,  and  of  administering  the  deserved 
rebuke  where  it  belonged.  In  ministerial  exchanges,  he 
always  preserved  the  dignity  of  his  office,  and  never 
grew  importunate  with  invitations  to  brethren  of  higher 
standing,  under  the  pretence  that  his  people  were  very 
earnest  to  hear  them,  ambitiously  longing  to  display 
himself  in  their  popular  pulpits.  Yet  his  exchanges 
were  numerous,  and  some  of  them  with  brethren  of  the 
first  repute. 

I  cannot  forbear  alluding  here,  in  brief,  to  the  many 
memorials  of  public  and  private  esteem  received  since 
his  departure.  The  resolutions  passed  by  the  Lawrence 
society,  and  some  of  the  beneficent  fraternities  of  which 
he  was  a  member,  speak  in  warm  appreciation  of  his 
labors  and  sacrifices  in  their  behalf,  and  in  sacred  mem- 
ory of  his  name.  A  long  roll  of  names  he  obtained  to 
the  Cadets'  pledge  of  temperance,  as  well  as  to  private 
pledges,  may  embrace  names  which  shall  hereafter  rise 
to  be  enrolled  in  blessed  remembrance  of  his  reformatory 
spirit.  Numerous  letters  of  condolence  from  profes- 
•sional  brethren,  together  with  notices  taken  from  the 


154  LIFE-SKETCHES   OF 

press,  now  before  me,  contain  expressions  of  sympathy 
and  commendation,  some  of  which  I  cannot  withhold, 
though,  in  quoting,  I  may  invade  the  sanctities  of  pri- 
vate personal  correspondence. 

'  Deeply  do  I  sympathize  with  you,  and  much  do  I 
'  feel  afflicted  myself,  in  the  loss  of  one  who  stood  so 
'  high  in  my  esteem,  and  whom  I  had  placed  on  the  list 

*  of  my  most  valued  friends.' 

'  I  loved  George.' 

*  Of  your  brother,  what  can  I  say  ?  I  bid  him  joy 
'  on  his  reunion  with  the  gentle  Ella,  angel  that  she 
'  now  is.     I  have  loved  him  for  his  noble  qualities,  and 

*  shall  remember  him  with  emotions  calm  and  deep.  He 
'  has  been  like  a  brother  to  one  who,  since  her  child- 
'  hood,  has  known  not  a  brother's  love.     I  shall  feel  his 

*  spirit  near  in  every  hour  I  need  sympathy.  Give 
'  him  a  sister's  blessing,  and  bid  him,  if  permitted,  carry 
'  a  message  of  love  to  Ella,  and  my  angel-boy ;  tell  him 
'  we  shall  still  be  one  family,  though  part  are  here  and 
'  part  in  heaven.  We  shall  look  up  to  them,  and  they 
'  down  upon  us.     Their  spirits  shall  descend  and  ascend 

*  the  angel-ladder  of  Jacob,  anon  whispering  messages  of 
'  peace  and  joy  to  the  struggling  souls  below.' 

'  I  saw  him  only  a  few  times,  but  saw  much  to  love 
'  and  admire ;  and  had  he  lived,  we  should  have  been 

*  friends.' 

'  One  of  the  richest  treats  of  my  life  was  to  enjoy  his 
'  society.  He  made  every  place  pleasant  and  happy,  and 

*  one  could  not  be  with  him  once  without  longing  to  meet 

*  him  again,  and  feeling  sorrow  at  parting.  Plain,  simple, 

*  unaffected  in  his  manners ;  generous  and  warm-hearted, 


GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK.  155 

*  to  a  degree  seldom  equalled  ;  noble,  upright,  [.urc,  none 

*  could  know  him  without  loving.  But  what  are  words, 
'  descriptions,  compared  with  what  is  felt  in  the  presence 
'  of  one  who  seemed  to  fill  with  endearing  associations 
'  every  scene  in  which  he  mingled  !  The  heart,  0,  the 
'  heart,  —  if  that  could  speak  !  But,  farewell,  dear 
'  George  !     "  Whom  the  gods  love,  die  young."     Thy 

*  companionship  has  beguiled  me  of  many  hours.  Thou 
'  hast  made  some  spots  of  earth  lovely,  and  ever  to  be 
'  remembered.  I  have  no  right  to  reclaim  thee  from 
'  the  skies.     Another  has  there  waited  for  thee,  and 

*  now  thou  art  joined  again  as  once  on  earth.  But,  0, 
'  forget  not  to  linger  near,  with  thy  guardian  spirit,  to 
'  pilgrims  whose  journey  is  not  yet  ended ! ' 

*  I  was  strongly  attached  to  him.    Pie  had  those  free, 

*  frank,  genial  qualities,  which  rendered  his  presence 

*  attractive,  and  won  the  love  of  all  who  sought  his 

*  sphere.  I  admired  his  devotion  to  our  great  faith,  his 
'  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  and  his  willingness  to  accept  what- 
'  ever  place  in  which  he  could  serve  his  Master's  will ; 
'  and  I  fear  he  may  have  labored  so  much  in  this  spirit, 
'  as  to  fall  an  early  martyr,  worn  down  in  mental  and 

*  physical  strength.' 

'  He  has  been  a  successful  preacher,  ever  since  he 
'  entered   the   ministry ;    and   his   life   has    been    an 

*  unbroken  series  of  acts  which  reflect  honor  on  his  mem- 
'  ory,  and  on  the  denomination  of  Christians  to  which  he 

*  belonged.'      These  extracts  may  sufiice. 

His  domestic  bereavement  changed  the  tone  of  his 
whole  life.  Left  a  childless  widower,  after  but  eighteen 
months  of  conjugal  joys,  broken  by  no  household  cares 


156  LIFE-SKETCHES    OF 

nor  crosses,  all  his  way  grew  dark  and  desolate.  His 
sorrow  entered  his  soul,  and  seemed  too  sacred  to  be 
exorcised.  He  had  no  remorseful  memories  in  connec- 
tion with  Ella,  —  nothing  but  love,  and  that  sweet, 
beautiful  presence,  now  no  more  around  him.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  forget,  nothing  he  wished  to 
forget,  save  her  last  sufferings,  and  that  she  was  gone. 
If  he-  ever  thought  of  another  to  take  her  place,  it  was 
with  no  heart,  and  the  thought  was  soon  dismissed. 
There  was  none  but  her  whom  he  still  saw  in  every- 
thing about  him  ;  and  if  he  ever  struggled  to  forget  his 
grief,  it  was  only  that  he  might  live  for  duty.  He  did 
struggle  to  soften  it.  He  covered  her  name  written  on 
the  fly-leaf  of  several  books  he  had  given  her,  but  the 
books  were  there  still.  He  sealed  up  a  pack  of  printed 
visiting  cards  which  bore  their  names  joined,  but  their 
names  were  still  joined  in  his  heart ;  and,  as  he  thought 
of  this,  he  wrote  on  the  package,  ^0,0'.^  He  asso- 
ciated her  memory  with  everytbing  joyous  and  lovely, 
and  endeavored  to  live  over  the  happiness  he  had  lost. 
As  music  was  the  passion  of  her  heart,  he  took  melan- 
choly delight  in  humming  over  those  familiar  songs 
they  had  sung  together,  fancying  her  still  joining, 
though  in  celestial  melody.  Time  after  time,  he  would 
sit  alone  at  the  piano,  or  melodeon,  playing  in  slow  and 
soft  measure  snatches  of  tunes  once  favorite  with  both ; 
now  and  then  pausing,  as  though  listening  to  hear  the 
voice  he  once  heard,  or  musing  amid  memories  which 
the  sad  strain  awakened  while  thrilling  upon  heart-chords 
that  never  ceased  to  vibrate  with  the  mournful  music 
of  his  grief. 


GEORGE  HENRY  CLARK.  157 

In  his  two  subsequent  annual  sermons,  he  could  not 
avoid  some  touching  allusion  to  the  departed.  In  the  last 
sermon  he  wrote,  Ella  ^Yas  still  there ;  but  she  was  there 
as  an  angel  lifting  her  song  in  that  band  whose  melody 
he  was  soon  to  drink  in  forevermore.  He  felt  it  no 
crime  to  mourn,  while  he  mourned  not  without  hope. 
His  grief  took  such  deep  hold  on  his  heart,  he  cared 
less  how  soon  he  wore  out  his  life  for  Grod  and  human- 
ity. And  then,  when  his  own  bodily  ills  came  on,  his 
grief  deepened  into  hours  of  awful  gloom,  —  hours  that 
seemed  to  grudge  him  the  long-hoped  release,  —  hours 
anon  filled  with  appalling  images  of  doubt,  of  fear,  and 
almost  despair.     But 

*  He  faced  the  spectres  of  his  mind. 
And  laid  them.' 

The  battle  he  fought,  in  those  long,  darkening  hours, 
was  polishing  his  armor  bright  for  heaven,  — was  work- 
ing out  a  faith  and  hope  which  should  at  last  vanquish 
the  final  enemy.  And  so  divinely  had  he  been  trained 
through  long  seasons  of  sickness  and  sorrow,  that  one 
who  had  often  seen  him  expressed  the  whole,  when  he 
said,  '  George  seemed  thoroughly  schooled  for  dying.' 

One  scene  more.  Years  ago,  on  the  night  after  he 
had  come  out  a  disciple  of  the  despised  faith,  and  the 
first  storm  had  been  poured  upon  him  as  an  alien,  he 
slept.  He  dreamed  he  was  a  sad,  lone  wanderer,  driven 
from  home  and  friends,  because  of  that  faith.  He  fled 
from  door  to  door,  pelted  with  scorn  and  contempt. 
Now  he  stands  at  the  threshold  of  some  old  familiar 
companion,  and  knocks  and  waits.  But  he  finds  no 
14 


158  LIFE-SKETCHES   OP 

welcome  while  that  faith  is  seen  in  every  lineament  of 
his  face.  He  is  driven  on  with  curses,  —  away,  away, 
from  house  to  house,  meeting  nothing  but  cold  looks, 
curled  lips,  and  withering  anathemas.  Now  the  storm 
howls  over  his  path,  and  then  the  sun  beats  down  with 
scathing  beams  upon  the  lone  wanderer  of  the  world, 
with  no  home,  no  friend.  He  is  faint,  weary,  famish- 
ing ;  and  is  there  no  refuge  ?  He  flies  afar  to  one  long 
known  as  standing  before  the  world,  a  herald  of  his  own 
scorned  faith.  But,  alas,  that  herald  has  shaken  in 
trust,  —  has  joined  the  jeering  multitude  in  apostasy  to 
Heaven  ;  and  he,  too,  drives  the  wanderer  from  his  door. 
He  flies,  jaded  and  weary,  over  the  earth,  in  search  of 
one,  if  only  one,  who  holds  fast  the  faith  for  which  he 
suiFers.  Over  seas,  deserts,  mountains,  continents,  from 
city  to  city,  he  flies ;  but  finds  none,  —  no,  not  one  !  The 
once  feeble  few  have  all  fallen  in  awful  apostasy.  Now, 
for  the  first  time,  the  wanderer  thinks  of  the  brother  who, 
alone  with  him,  once  came  out  from  the  darkness ;  and, 
wondering  why  he  had  not  thought  before,  he  flies  to 
seek  his  presence.  He  stands  before  him.  But,  alas ! 
he,  too,  has  joined  the  throng,  and  holds  that  faith  no 
more.  He,  too,  pours  curses  upon  the  wanderer's  head. 
And  now,  merciful  God!  he  is  alone,  —  alone,  indeed! 
He  stops  and  thinks.  The  careless,  unbelieving  throng, 
on  one  hand,  holds  out  a  thousand  transient  charms ;  and, 
on  the  other,  is  a  lone,  stormy  world.  Shall  he  join  the 
throng,  and  repeat  the  denial  of  Peter ;  or  go  on  to  Cal- 
vary ?  Shall  he  sell  that  divine  faith  which  alone  can 
lift  the  song  of  joy  even  amid  toils  and  trials,  and  endless 
travels  over  the  wide  wildernesses  of  earth  ?     No,  no ! 


GEORGE   HENRY   CLARK.  159 

He  liad  once  tasted  the  dregs  of  wo  drank  from  the 
poisoned  chalice  of  council-made  creeds.  He  had  once 
known  the  agony,  the  horror,  the  despair.  He  strug- 
gled, groaned,  prayed ;  and  at  last  dashed  the  tempter 
at  his  feet.  He  triumphed  in  his  faith.  And  now 
again  he  goes  on  in  his  lone  pilgrimage ;  but  he  goes 
rejoicing  anew  in  the  armor  made  strong  and  bright  from 
victorious  battle. 

He  awoke  from  the  dream.  And  he  awoke  rejoicing 
that  his  faith  had  not  wavered,  even  in  all  those  wild 
and  despairing  wanderings  of  the  night.  He  thanked 
God,  and  took  coui'age.  Years  after,  and  after  he  had 
long  gone  over  the  world  a  poor,  lone  wanderer,  he  stood 
before  his  flock,  and  repeated  that  tale  of  the  night. 
Tears  streamed  down  the  faces  of  the  listening  band,  and 
hearts  were  made  stronger  in  a  faith  thus  unshaken 
through  the  terrible  ordeals  of  time,  as,  with  a  voice 
loud  and  tremulous,  he  closed,  exclaiming,  *  My  soul  has 
'been  steadfast,  and  ever  shall  be!  When  old  death 
'  comes  to  call  me  away,  with  my  hold  still  strong,  I 
'  hope  to  triumph ;  and  I  pray  God  my  last  words,  while 
'  leaving  the  world,  may  be,  with  Paul,  I  have  finished 
'  my  course,  I  have  kept  the  Faith  ! 

The  solemn  hour  that  closed  his  earthly  career,  to  the 
silent,  sobbing  group  standing  around  his  death-couch, 
brought  an  answer  to  that  earnest  prayer.  The  faith 
he  had  kept  through  years  of  incessant  struggle,  and 
which  had  borne  him  on  his  course  with  unfaltering 
purpose,  was  still  the  great  solace  of  his  soul,  while  hov- 
ering on  the  borders  of  the  invisible  world ;  and  ere  the 
last  flickering  flame  went  out  from  the  lamp  of  life, 


160  GEORGE   HENRY    CLARK. 

bright-winged  Hope  joined  hand  in  hand  with  Faith  in 
bearing  the  disenthralled  spirit  home  to  God  in  triumph. 
Soldier  of  the  cross,  and  of  many  a  moral  battle-field,  now 
rest  thou  from  thy  labors  below !  But  thine  armor  shall 
long  hang  bright  in  the  halls  of  memory,  within  whose 
walls  is  heard  the  serene  voice  and  muffled  tread  of  depart- 
ed spirits,  reminding  the  Christian  warrior  of  one  who 
bled  and  suffered  with  noble  heroism,  and  who  fell  in  his 
prime,  still  valiant  to  the  last  for  the  Captain  of  the 
great  salvation.  Nay ;  thou  hast  not  fallen,  but  risen  to 
join  the  innumerable  throng  of  celestial  witnesses  hover- 
ing over  this  terrestrial  encampment,  whose  '  white  tents 
shall  soon  be  struck  for  the  morning  march '  of  eternity. 
Thy  course,  here  finished,  has  just  commenced  its  glo- 
rious campaign  on  the  plains  of  immortal  being ;  and 
with  loved  ones  lingering  by  the  side,  with  saints,  mar- 
tyrs, angels  and  just  men  made  perfect  in  heaven,  lift- 
ing the  everlasting  song,  thou  shalt  go  on  in  fields  for- 
ever opening  anew,  amid  waving  palms  of  victory. 


J  L 

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